.,;-••      '    :'-    -  '    :';  ;;  iijlljij!:!!  -;'':'i    ; 

UC-NRLF 


Yours, 

In   clouds  or  sunshine, 


WHAR'  THE  HAND 
GOD  Is  SEEN 


And  Other  Poems 


By 

CAPTAIN  JACK  CRAWFORD 

(Late  Chief  of  Scouts,  U.  S.  Army) 


Roped  for  relief  of  the  author,  the  divertisement  of 

tenderfeet,  and  the  joy  of  all  those  who  love 

God's  Great  Out-of -Doors 


1910 
NEW  YORK  LYCEUM  PUBLISHING  CO. 

45  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK,  ROOM  168 


All  rights  reserved 
Copyrighted  by  Capt.  John  Wallace  Crawford,  1910 


'..': 


JOHN  A.  HILL 

Best  all  'round  friend  I  ever  knew, — 
Unselfish,  unafraid  to  do, 
Clean  cut  and  unassuming,  too, 

All  manly  traits  possessing  — 
To  you,  my  friend  of  Auld  Lang  Syne, 
I  dedicate  this  book  d1  mine, 
And  may  you  find  in  ev'ry  line 

A  broncho's  love  and  blessing. 

Yours  in  clouds  or  sunshine, 
JOHN  WALLACE  CRAWFORD. 


A  COMRADE'S   FOREWORD 

It  is  as  natural  for  Captain  Jack  Crawford  to  weave  his 
inspired  thoughts  into  a  fabric  of  song  as  it  is  for  the  birds 
of  the  Western  wilds  to  warble  their  glad  greetings  to  the 
golden  dawn  of  a  summer  day.  I  was  his  companion — his 
"pard,"  as  we  Westerners  describe  close  friendship — for  many 
years,  and  it  may  not  be  a  very  great  exaggeration  to  declare 
that  I  never  knew  a  day  to  pass  in  which  he  did  not,  with 
rapidly  moving  pencil,  give  outflow  to  his  poetic  imaginings 
in  running  rhyme.  In  the  rude  cabin  in  the  wilds  of  the  San 
Andreas  mountains  in  New  Mexico  which  sheltered  us  for 
many  months,  in  the  saddle  while  on  the  trail,  by  the  light 
of  the  campfire  after  a  day's  hard  ride,  and  sometimes  when 
apprehended  dangers  cautioned  against  the  use  of  a  fire  which 
might  attract  undesirable  attention  from  native  Americans 
in  gaudy  headdress  and  hideous  war  paint,  with  saddle  for  seat 
and  buckskin-covered  knee  for  table  he  would  sit  in  the 
bright  light  of  the  Southwestern  moon  and  write,  and  write, 
and  write  until  I  sometimes  thought  that  versification  was  in 
his  case  an  uncontrollable  mania.  The  pad  of  paper  and  the 
pencil  were  regarded  by  him  as  being  as  necessary  in  the  saddle 
pocket  as  the  hardtack  and  jerked  meat  which  usually  con- 
stituted the  scouting  menu  when  on  the  trail. 

While  in  the  West,  his  songs  were  all  of  the  West.  He 
saw  poetry  in  everything  from  the  awe-inspiring  grandeur  of 
the  mountains  to  the  sneaking  coyotes  which  sang  us  to 
sleep  at  night  from  their  perch  on  a  distant  sandhill,  but  since 
he  drifted  Eastward  and  came  into  touch  with  civilization 

[3] 


he  has  tuned  his  poetic  lyre  in  a  different  key  and  writes  of 
more  commonplace  things. 

His  first  book  of  verse  was  printed  many  years  ago  and  was 
wholly  made  up  of  Western  song.  Such  copies  as  are  yet 
in  existence  are  preserved  as  valued  mementoes  by  many  of 
his  friends  and  companions  who  knew  him  in  border  life. 
The  present  volume  embodies  a  few  of  his  earlier  wildland 
efforts  interspersed  among  poems  of  varied  character. 

The  literary  polish  which  characterizes  the  work  of  the 
great  poets  will  not  be  found  in  the  productions  of  this  pictur- 
esque son  of  the  Borderland,  but  tender,  soulful  touches  of 
human  nature  crop  out  in  every  verse.  He  never  sat  as  a  boy 
beneath  the  watchful  eye  of  the  old-time  schoolmaster  in 
vogue  in  the  days  of  his  boyhood  who  stood  as  a  tyrant  be- 
fore his  tousle-headed  flock  with  a  dog-eared  book  in  one 
hand  and  a  corrective  hickory  rod  in  the  other.  What  edu- 
cation he  possesses  was  picked  up  in  the  wild  school  of 
Nature  and  through  association  with  army  officers  and  their 
wives  at  the  several  frontier  military  posts  at  which  he  was 
stationed  while  in  the  government  scouting  service.  Before 
learning  to  read  after  returning  from  active  service  at  the 
front  in  the  great  Civil  War,  the  page  of  a  printed  book  was 
to  him  but  a  jumble  of  unmeaning  black  characters  massed  upon 
white  paper.  To  use  a  homely  colloquialism,  he  did  not 
"know  B  from  a  bull's  foot"  until  taught  the  alphabet  by  a 
Sister  of  Charity  when,  near  the  close  of  the  War,  he  lay 
upon  a  hospital  cot  suffering  from  a  gunshot  wound  received  in 
battle.  Considering  all  of  this,  the  work  between  the  covers 
of  this  volume  must  appeal  to  the  educated  reader  as  being 
truly  remarkable. 

With  these  simple  words  of  introduction  the  drippings  from 
his  poetic  pen  are  passed  up  to  the"  reader. 

Denver,  Colorado.  JAMES  BARTON  ADAMS. 

[4] 


CONTENTS 

.    «•»    . PAGE 

A  Bit  of  Doggerel 15 

A  Broncho's  Philosophy     . 

A  Comrade's  Foreword 3 

A  Cure  for  Insomnia 90 

A  Happy  Hit     ....  ....  142 

A  Memory 36 

A  Message  from  the  Dead        .       .       . 32 

An  Old  Trapper's  Religion       . 122 

A  Plea  to  the  Boys 22 

A  Tribute  to  Old  Glory 15 

A  Tribute  to  My  Old  Pard,  "Tom"  Walsh 52 

A  Tribute  to  Father  Judge 48 

At  the  Mission  Door 28 

A  Sunshine  Boomerang 29 

A  Sermon  to  Myself 38 

A  Scout's  Greeting .    62 

A  Yuletide  Bouquet 42 

Bet  Your  Last  Dollar  on  It 44 

Broncho  vs.  Bicycle 104 

Burns'  Anniversary 73 

Camp  Fire  Sparks 64 

Come  Back,  Papa 89 

Dedication 2 

Decoration  Day 146 

Does  it  Pay? 39 

Dot  Little  Crippled  Boy  Vot  Died 98 

Emblematic 72 

Faith 82 

God's  Anteroom 18 

Greeting 31 

Heard  in  the  Cane  Brake 93 

Howdy,  Teddy?    Howdy  Do? 60 

Hymn  of  Nature's  Creed 13 

If  I  But  Could 57 

If  You  Should  Die  Tonight 30 

In  Donegal 92 

Inspiration 11 

It  Doesn't  Pay 14 

I've  Got  the  Brand 49 

Jim's  Letter 136 

Kit  Carson 27 

Lines  to  L.  L 33 

Memorial  Day 144 

Mother's  Prayers 26 

Mother's  Way 16 

My  Little  New  Log  Cabin  in  the  Hills 86 

Nora  Lee 80 

Not  a  Sin  to  Lie  That  Way     . 134 

"  Now  I  Lay  Me  Down  to  Sleep  " 79 


PAGE 

Ol'  Bill  Reynolds's  'Dopted  Boy        . 112 

Our  Roosevelt 66 

Our  Martyred  Dead 145 

Rattlin'  Toe's  Prayer 118 

Resigned 83 

Sanctimon'yus  Ike 116 

Saviour  of  My  Soul 75 

Serenade  in  the  Hills .78 

Sleep,  Soldier,  Sleep 139 

Some  Bronco  Philosophy 25 

Sunshine 34 

Thanksgiving 17 

Thar'  Was  Jim 108 

The  Broncho 10 

The  Elk  and  His  Mission 43 

The  Gallant  Seventy-Ninth 140 

The  Gray  and  the  Blue  in  Domestic  Life 149 

The  Harvest 24 

The  Heavenly  Telephone .'....   88 

The  Irish  Lover 87 

The  Keystone  of  the  Union 84 

The  Last  Roll  Call 117 

The  Man  with  the  Pick  and  the  Drill 68 

The  Mountain  Boy's  Letter 56 

The  Music  of  Life 76 

The  Old  Kentucky  Rifle 100 

The  Optimistic  Warbler 91 

The  Reporter 40 

The  Scout's  Retreat 30 

The  Shadow  of  a  Curse 20 

The  Songs  Unsung 12 

The  Sunshine  Trail 47 

The  True  Story  of  Marching  Through  Georgia  .      .      .      .125 

The  Veteran  and  His  Grandson  126 

The  Womanhood  of  Man 1 10 

Thirty  Years  Ago 94 

This  Ain't  Poetry — It's  God's  Truth 46 

To  Andrew  Carnegie 61 

To  Mark  Twain 67 

To  Miriam 67 

To  Mrs.  Kate  Brownlee  Sherwood 70 

To  My  Book 41 

To  My  Winchester 54 

To  One  of  God's  Queens 59 

To  the  Daughter  of  General  John  B.  Gorden      ....   50 

What  Do  I  Know? 9 

Whar'  the  Hand  o'  God  Is  Seen 7 

When  Bill  Come  Home 131 

Who  the  Heroes  Were 103 

Woman's  Influence 65 


WHAR  THE  HAND  O'  GOD  IS  SEEN 

Do  I  like  the  city,  stranger?  Tisn't  likely  that  I  would ; 
Tisn't  likely  that  a  ranger  from  the  border  ever  could 
Git  accustomed  to  the  flurry  an'  the  loud  unearthly 

noise — 

Everybody  in  a  hurry,  men  an'  wimmin,  gals  an'  boys, 
All  a  rushin'  like  the  nation  'mid  the  rumble  an'  the  jar, 
Jes'  as  if  their  souls'  salvation  hung  upon  their  gittin' 

thar. 

Like  it?     No.     I  love  to  wander 
'Mid  the  vales  an'  mountains  green, 

In  the  border  land  out  yonder, 
Whar'  the  hand  o'  God  is  seen. 

Nothin'  here  but  bricks  an*  mortar,  towerin'  overhead 

so  high 

That  you  never  see  a  quarter  o'  the  overhangin'  sky, 
Not  a  tree  or  grassy  medder,  not  a  runnin'  brook  in 

sight, 
Nothin'  but  the  buildins'   shadder    makin'    gloom  of 

Heaven's  light. 
E'en  the  birds  are  all  imported  from  away  acrost  the 

sea — 
Faces  meet  me  all  distorted  with  the  hand  of  misery. 

Like  it?    No.     I  love  to  wander 
'Mid  the  vales  an'  mountains  green, 

In  the  border  land  out  yonder, 
Whar'  the  hand  o'  God  is  seen. 


[7] 


.ii1  railroad  trains  above  you,  streets  by  workmen 

all'  defaced, 
Everybody  tryin'  to  shove  you  in  the  gutter  in  their 

haste. 
Cars  an'  carts  an'  wagons  rumblin'  through  the  streets 

with  deafen'n'  roar, 
Drivers  yellin',  swearin',  grumblin',  jes'  like  imps  from 

Sheol's  shore; 
Factories  jinin'  in  the  chorus,  helpin'  'long  the  din  to 

swell; 

Auctioneers  in  tones  sonorous,  lying  'bout  the  goods 
they  sell. 
Like  it?     No.     I  love  to  wander 

'Mid  the  vales  an'  mountains  green, 
In  the  border  land  out  yonder, 

Whar'  the  hand  o'  God  is  seen. 
Yes,  I  love  the  Western  border ;  pine  trees  wavin*  in  the 

air, 

Rocks  piled  up  in  rough  disorder,  birds  a-singin'  every- 
where ; 
Deer  a  playin'  in  their  gladness,  elks  a  feedin'  in  the 

glen; 
Not  a  trace  o'  pain  or  sadness  campin'  on  the  trail  o' 

men. 
Brooks  o'  crystal  clearness  flowin'  o'er  the  rocks,  an' 

lovely  flowers 

In  their  tinted  beauty  growin'  in  the  mountain  dells  an' 
bowers. 
Fairer  picture  the  Creator 

Never  threw  on  earthly  screen, 
Than  this  lovely  home  o'  Natur' 
Whar  the  hand  o'  God  is  seen. 

[8] 


WHAT  DO  I  KNOW? 

("What  do  you  know,  Captain  Jack?"  asked  an  editor.  In 
ten  minutes  Captain  Crawfofd  handed  him  the  following 
poem)  : 

What  do  I  know?    Poor  little  me, 
I  need  a  microscope  to  see 
What  I  do  know ; 

The  overflow 

Of  nature's  riches,  all  aglow 
And  sparkling  with  the  stars  and  dew; 
I  only  know  beyond  the  blue 
I  cannot  see. 

Poor  little  me. 

What  do  I  know  ?     I  know  but  this : 
I  know  my  ignorance  is  bliss 
Most  wisely  planned. 

I  understand 

That  tow'ring  pines  and  mountains  grand 
Are  dear  and  beautiful  to  me; 
Beyond  their  peaks  I  cannot  see, 
But  God  is  there, 

And  everywhere, 
And  this  is  good  enough  for  me. 


m 


THE  BRONCHO 

I  am  saddest  when  I'm  gladdest 

And  I'm  gladdest  when  I'm  sad; 
I  am  maddest  when  I'm  baddest, 

And  I'm  baddest  when  I'm  mad. 
But  my  sadness  and  my  badness 

With  my  madness  all  combine, 
Just  to  fertilize  the  gladness 

In  this  broncho  soul  of  mine. 

I  would  rather  be  a  broncho 

With  a  lightnin'  disposition, 
Than  a  goody  goody  smooth  one, 

Who  for  suckers  goes  a-fishin'. 
For  the  broncho  shows  his  colors 

An'  he  reaches  out  behind  him, 
An'  you  know  just  what's  a  comin' 

When  you  undertake  to  bind  him. 

He  is  not  a  goin'  to  stand  for 

To  be  roped  an'  throw'd  an'  bottled, 
To  be  bridled,  cinched  an'  saddled, 

An*  unmercifully  throttled; 
An'  he'll  buck  and  kick  like  blazes 

Just  for  all  that  there  is  to  him, 
You  may  break  his  heart  and  kill  him, 

But  you  never  can  subdue  him. 

What's  the  reason,  do  you  ask  me? 

Ask  the  chump  as  does  the  ropin'. 
He'll  admit  a  pound  of  sugar's 

.Worth  a  hundred  pounds  of  dopin'. 

[10] 


An'  it's  well  the  broncho  knows  it, 
An'  resents  it  when  you  bleed  him ; 

But  with  smiles  an'  lumps  of  sugar — 
Why,  a  little  child  can  lead  him. 


INSPIRATION 

I  scale  imagination's  dreamy  heights 
And  soar  away  beyond  all  earthly  sights 
And  seek  at  Nature's  best  such  nourishment 
As  only  comes  with  harmonies  so  blent 
With  vision,  that  in  childhood's  fairyland 
Were  touched  by  magic  of  an  unseen  hand. 

Thus  seeing  the  unseen,  imbibing  more 
Than  ever  was  contained  in  richest  store 
Of  literature,  of  poetry,  or  art, 
\Vhere  mechanism  forms  the  greater  part — 
While  Mother  Nature  hides  within  her  breast 
The  flaming  torch  of  truth  and  with  it  best 
Of  inspirations,  pure  and  undented; 
I  felt  her  touch  when  I  was  yet  a  child. 

I  dreamed  the  same  sweet  dream  I'm  dreaming  now 
And  sometimes  plucked  a  pansy  from  her  brow, 
'Tansies  for  thoughts,"  as  sweet  Ophelia  said, 
And  through  sweet  phantom  thoughts  my  dreams  were 

led; 

I  wove  it  in  a  wreath  of  simple  rhyme 
And  placed  it  on  the  brow  of  Father  Time, 

[11] 


THE  SONGS  UNSUNG 

Oh,  I  wish  I  could  sing 

The  real  songs  that  oft  spring 

From  the  musical  depths  of  my  soul ; 

There's  a  symphony  there, 

With  a  melody  rare, 

Sweetest  harmony  blending  the  whole. 

Like  a  psean  it  seems 

As  it  thrills  through  my  dreams, 

When  the  harp  of  my  soul  starts  to  play, 

But  the  instant  I  sing, 

Like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

It  trembles  and  flutters  away. 

Oh,  I  wish  I  could  sing, 

When  the  bells  start  to  ring 

The  chimes  that  come  soft  through  the  air ; 

When  the  birds  and  the  bees 

Hum  and  sing  in  the  breeze 

And  sweet  life  surges  through,  everywhere. 

In  the  breeze  as  it  floats, 
I  can  hear  the  true  notes, 
To  catch  them  I  eagerly  try; 
Then  I  hum  it  again 
Till  the  sweet  minor  strain 
Is  turned  to  a  tear  or  a  sigh. 


[12] 


HYMN  OF  NATURE'S  GREED 

There's  a  glint  of  glory  gleaming, 

There's  a  flag  of  love  outstreaming 

O'er  the  stronghold  of  the  ramparts  of  your  soul; 

There's  a  flag  of  truce  uplifting, 

Clouds  of  care  are  passing — drifting, 

There's  a  haven  where  the  troubled  waters  roll 

Cheer  up  and  be  glad, 

Let  the  dead  past  be  sad, 

All  hail  the  bright  sunbeams  today; 

In  your  soul  there's  a  light 

That  will  burn  through  the  night, 

And  drive  all  the  dark  clouds  away. 

There's  a  wondrous  depth  of  feeling 

We  are  wrongfully  concealing; 

Can't  you  feel  it  in  the  thrilling  of  your  soul? 

What  you  need  is  reconstruction 

And  a  roborant  eruption 

Of  the  glory  you  are  striving  to  control. 

Mother  Nature's  hand  is   reaching — 
You  can  hear  her  voice  beseeching 
That  you,  her  child,  will  but  her  laws  obey. 
If  you're  man  enough  to  face  her, 
Don't  abuse  her  but  embrace  her, 

She  will  heal  your  wounds  and  make  your  heartstrings 
play. 


[13] 


IT  DOESN'T  PAY 


"What's  gone  and  what's  past  help,  should  be  past  grief." 

— Shak  esp  eare. 


We  should  thank  the  bard  of  Avon  for  this  truthful 

sentiment ; 

His  wisdom,  his  philosophy,  with  sunny  humor  blent 
Have  conquered  many  a  sorrow — made  light  of  many 

a  care, 
And  turned  the  gloom  of  worriment  to  sunlight  clear 

and  fair. 

I  love  to  steal  his  thunder,  when  it  rumbles  in  my  soul ; 
The  flashes  of  his  lightning  oft  light  me  to  my  goal. 
And  thus,  while  I  reflect  him,  in  my  simple,  rustic  ways, 
Some  rustic  folks  may  read  him,  who  could  never  read 
his  plays. 

Because  their  understanding,  undeveloped,  cannot  grasp 
What  their  souls  may  drink  with  pleasure,  if  I  open  up 

the  clasp 

In  a  simple  transformation  or  a  rustic  bas-relief. 
"What's  past  and  can't  be  mended  should,  indeed,  be 

past  all  grief." 

So  I  ask  of  you,  my  brother,  or  my  comrade,  does  it  pay 
To  cloud  your  splendid  intellect  with  what  has  passed 

away? 

To  dwarf  the  possibility  of  reaching  yonder  goal — 
To  handicap  your  genius  with  wet  blankets  on  your 

soul? 

[14] 


Get  wise,  my  friend,  let  wisdom  take  the  place  of  false 

pretense ; 
There's  only  one  thing  needful,  that's  a  bit  of  common 

sense. 

If  you'll  only  make  an  effort  you'll  get  it  right  away, 
And  your  answer  to  my  question  will  be,  "No,  it  doesn't 

pay." 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  OLD  GLORY 

O  beautiful  emblem  on  Liberty's  tree! 

0  Star-Spangled  Gem  of  the  Land  of  the  Free! 

1  love  thee,  Old  Glory,  with  love  that  is  true 
And  as  pure  as  the  stars  in  thy  heavenly  blue. 
There's  no  flag  like  my  flag;  there's  no  flag  like  thine, 
O  patriots,  countrymen,  comrades  of  mine! 

'Tis  kissed  by  God's  breezes,  by  angels  caressed, 
Beloved  by  the  North,  by  the  South,  East  and  West ; 
'Tis  striped  like  the  rainbow,  like  rays  of  the  sun, 
When  twilight  is  fading,  and  moon  has  begun, 
And  each  brilliant  star  shooting  out  when  unfurled 
Sends  flashes  of  hope  to  the  oppressed  of  the  world. 


A  BIT  OF  DOGGEREL 

The  most  faithful  dog  that  I  ever  knew, 
Most  lovable  and  kind  and  true, 
Was  a  yellow  cur,  tender  and  brave, 
Whose  great  heart  broke  on  his  master's  grave. 
[15] 


MOTHER'S  WAY 

Whatever  my  soul  may  long  for, 

Whatever  my  eyes  may  see, 
The  simple  faith  of  mother 

Is  broad  enough  for  me. 

For  years  and  years,  for  months,  from  day  to  day, 

In  camp  or  field  where  rainbow-tinted  spray 

Rises  in  misty  monuments  on  high, 

To  mingle  with  the  dewdrops  in  the  sky, 

I've  heard  a  voice,  sometimes  in  whispers  low, 

I've  felt  the  feathery  touch  like  flakes  of  snow 

Descending  when  the  stars  were  hid  from  view 

And  not  a  silvery  spray  in  heaven's  blue ; 

And  yet  beyond  it  all  I  saw  a  light 

That  pierced  the  Stygian  darkness  of  the  night, 

And,  though  my  tired  eyes  were  closed  the  while, 

I  saw  the  jeweled  eyes — the  tender  smile 

That   midnight  gloom   nor   snowy    clouds    could 

smother ; 
I  heard — I  felt — I  saw  the  face  of  Mother. 

Oh,  peaceful  sleep  that  comes  with  thoughts  like 

this. 

That  whispers  peace,  and  bids  me  rise  to  kiss 
The  rod  administered  by  unseen  hand ! 
Nor  do  I  try  to  think  I  understand. 
I  only  know,  that  as  I  sit  me  here 
And  note  the  soft,  low  whisperings  in  my  ear, 
That  somewhere  there's  a  Master  of  my  mind 
That  I  can  see  and  worship,  though  I'm  blind, 
[16] 


And  while  He  thus  dictates — I'll  have  none  other, 
But  God  of  Faith,  and  Hope,  Sunshine  and  Mother. 

God  is  good  and  good  is  God, 
And  God  and  good  together 
Will  keep  us  clean  unsight  unseen 
Throughout  life's  changing  weather. 


THANKSGIVING 

We  thank  Thee,  God,  the  Giver  of  all  good, 

For  Peace  and  Justice,  strenuous  truths  uniting — 
For  giving  us  that  glorious  Man  who  stood 

Between  the  lines  and  stopped  inhuman  fighting: 
For  bounteous  harvests,  strong  heroic  souls, 

Who  dare  to  follow  him  we  call  our  Teddy — 
For  truth  and  honor  where  Old  Glory  rules ; 

For  statesmen  unafraid,  true,  strong  and  steady. 

God  speed  the  truth,  let  Justice  reign  supreme — 

Let  Labor,  Law  and  Loyalty  combine 
To  make  it  real,  our  brightest,  happiest  dream 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  and  God's  Sunshine; 
And  when  Thanksgiving  Day  returns  once  more 

May  Peace  and  Plenty,  strolling  hand  in  hand, 
Go  on  and  on  toward  a  richer  shore, 

While  Song  and  Laughter  echoes  through  the  land. 

And  echoing  from  every  hill  and  glen 

Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 

AMEN. 

[17] 


GOD'S  ANTEROOM 

THE  GRAND    CANYON    OF  ARIZONA 

0  canyon,  grand  and  wild  and  free! 
You've  got  a  lariat  on  me. 

My  soul  is  broncho-busted,  too, 
My  hat  is  off.     I  bow  to  you, 
Almighty  Hand,  who  cut  this  brand 
That  broncho  souls  can  understand. 

1  gaze  in  awe  and  silence  here ; 
I  want  to  laugh,  I  find  a  tear 
That  irrigates  the  soul  I  feel. 

O  Mother  Nature,  I  would  kneel 
And  clasp  and  kiss  thy  mighty  hand 
And  worship  in  this  temple  grand. 

What's  that  you  say,  you  silly  dude? 
Such  sentiments  are  weak  and  crude? 
God!  Yes,  to  brainless  things  like  you, 
Whose  soul  no  greatness  could  imbue, 
To  see,  or  feel,  or  understand 
God's  mighty  hand. 

You  go  to  Europe,  do  you  not? 
Because  you  worship  God,  I  wot- 
Yes,  fashion's  god,  a  foolish  dame, 
And  yet  you  love  her  just  the  same, 
And  bow  and  worship  at  her  shrine — 
How  different  this  God  of  mine! 

Almighty  scar  on  mountain  crest! 
My  soul  seems  waking  from  the  tomb, 
[18] 


And  I,  a  mite  on  Nature's  breast, 
I  never  knew,  I  never  guessed, 
But  now  I  know  what  is,  is  best, 
And  this  is  God's  own  anteroom. 

0  Mother  Nature,  hold  my  hand 
And  steady  me  a  little  while, 
That  I  may  feel  and  understand 
This  awe-inspiring  sight  so  grand, 
God's  greatest,  most  impressive  brand 
Clean-cut,  and  deeper  than  a  mile. 

And  now  I  see  the  lightning  flash, 

1  hear  the  thunder  roll  and  crash, 
While  echoes  through  the  canyon  dash 

'Mid  heaven's  tears. 
O  Mother  Nature,  hold  me  tight 
While  fall  the  shadows  of  the  night; 
My  trembling  soul  is  all  afright 
With  holy  fears. 

Almighty  scar!  Almighty  Hand 

That  smote  thee,  who  can  understand 

And  who  describe  this  wondrous  land 

Beyond  compare? 

Can  mortal  paint  the  flower's  perfume, 
Or  see  beyond  the  mystic  tomb, 
Or  e'en  describe  God's  anteroom, 

So  wondrous  fair? 


[19] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  CURSE 

I  saw  it  first  when  roses  bloomed 

Upon  the  cheek  pressed  close  to  mine; 
When  in  her  arms  I  laughed  and  crooned, 

And  I,  a  bit  of  God's  sunshine, 
Was  sent  to  seal  her  woman's  love — 

To  bind  her  closer  to  her  fate. 
No  trusting,  cooing  turtle  dove 

Was  ever  truer  to  her  mate. 

I  saw  it  as  a  toddling  child, 

Nor  knew  the  cause  of  mother's  tears, 
Till   later — reckless,   though,   and   wild, 

I  shared  in  all  her  hopes  and  fears. 
I  saw  it  snatch  the  crust  of  bread 

From  lips  of  starving  child,  and  then 
I  saw  it  lay  its  victims  dead, 

In  home  and  church  and  prison  pen. 

I  saw  it  in  the  humble  cot 

Amid  the  towering  pines  afar; 
I  saw  it  in  degraded  sot, 

A  libel  foul  of  what  we  are. 
And  stalking  through  the  busy  marts 

Of  towns  and  cities  every  day, 
You'll  find  it  breaking  tender  hearts 

And  dooming  manhood  to  decay. 

You'll  see  it  drive  away  the  blush 
That  steals  a  halo  to  the  cheek, 

And  in  its  stead  a  burning  flush 

Will  change  with  shame   the  pure  and  meek. 
[20] 


It  comes  in  spite  of  woman's  tears, 
In  spite  of  mother's  strong  appeals, 

And  hearts,  deep  sorrowing  for  years, 
Are  crushed  'neath  its  relentless  wheels. 

It  comes  to  murder  innocence — 

To  torture  ere  the  final  blow — 
To  hold  its  victims  in  suspense, 

While  knowing  death  is  sure,  though  slow. 
And  while  misleading  mother's  boys, 

With  painted  sirens  for  a  bait — 
Poor  fool!  he  plays  with  the  decoys, 

And  pays  the  cost,  alas  !  too  late. 

It  comes  to  dig  a  million  graves 

Of  noblest  men  God  ever  made. 
Great  hearts  and  brains  are  quickest  slaves, 

And  easiest  started  down  the  grade. 
Of  all  the  plagues  that  ever  spread, 

And  all  the  instruments  to  slay, 
None  ever  claimed  so  many  dead 

As  Demon  Drink  can  claim  to-day. 

And  yet,  if  people  would  but  think 

Of  all  the  bitterness  and  woe 
That  come  from  the  foul  fountain's  brink — 

With  aching  hearts  and  heads  bowed  low, 
They  would  suppress  this  crying  curse, 

And  make  our  country  grandly  free, 
Increasing  wealth  and  brain  and  purse, 

And  truly  give  us  liberty. 


[21] 


A  PLEA  TO  THE  BOYS 

My  most  sincere  and  earnest  prayer 

Is  not  for  wealth  or  fame — 
And  yet  my  castles  in  the  air 

Keep  growing,  just  the  same. 
And  if  at  times  I  sigh  for  wealth — 

I  say  it  frank  and  true— 
I  want  not  riches  for  myself, 

But  for  the  good  'twill  do ! 

And  what  I  want  to  do — and  do 

When   fortune  favors  me, 
Is  just  to  find  a  boy  or  two 

And  tell  them  earnestly, 
Impressed  with  all  sincerity, 

Which  boys  can  understand — 
Recount  with  all  austerity 

The  truth  at  my  command. 

I  like  to  talk  to  reckless  boys — 

The  black  sheep  and  the  rest, 
About  the  sorrows  and  the  joys 

Of  roughing  it  out  West. 
And  how  a  thousand  boys  or  more 

On  false  dime-novel  trails, 
Who  ran  away  in  days  of  yore, 

Are  now  in  Western  jails. 

Oh,  if  the  boys  will  only  heed 
The  truth,  that  I  know  best, 

I'm  sure  they  never  more  would  read 
Those  nightmares  of  the  West. 
[22] 


And  all  the  long-haired  scouts  who  claim 
They  took  scalps  by  the  score 

Have  lied — they  only  gained  their  fame 
As  showmen,  nothing  more. 

Suppose  you  found  a  rattlesnake 

Coiled  up  beside  his  nest; 
You  wouldn't  pick  him  up  and  take 

His  snakeship  to  your  breast? 
Well,  boys,  the  man  who  signs  his  name 

To  stories  such  as  these 
Will  strike  and  sting  you  just  the  same. 

Don't  read  such  nonsense,  please. 

And  so,  dear  boys,  my  daily  prayer 

Is  not  for  wealth  or  fame; 
But  I  must  do  and  I  must  dare 

A  lot,  in  honor's  name. 
And  all  I  ask  is  for  a  chance 

To  prove  this  lesson  true; 
My  broncho  soul  with  joy  will  dance 

When  I  can  talk  to  you. 

Some  day  I  mean  to  organize 

A  juvenile  crusade, 
With  honest  hearts,  and  sunlit  eyes, 

"Determined,  unafraid," 
To  march  to  Washington  en  masse, 

And  there  unmask  the  fakes — 
To  pray  our  lawmakers  to  pass 

An  act  to  kill  the  snakes. 


[23] 


THE  HARVEST 

When  your  head  is  bowed  in  sorrow 

And  your  soul  is  out  of  tune, 
When  the  prospects  of  to-morrow 

Are  behind  a  veil  of  gloom, 
Can't  you  see  the  light  beyond  it — 

Just  a  glimmer  of  the  prize? 
Keep  a  groping  and  you'll  find  it 

Just  a  blessing  in  disguise. 

Did  you  ever  climb  the  mountain, 

Weary,  sore-foot  and  afraid 
You  would  never  reach  the  fountain 

On  the  summit  in  the  shade? 
Then  a  sudden  glint  of  glory 

Seemed  to  flash  before  your  eyes, 
And  the  sequel  to  the  story— 

'Twas  a  blessing  in  disguise. 

Courage  is  the  only  asset 

That  will  conquer  in  the  fight 
If  you  have  the  will  to  mass  it 

On  the  lines  of  truth  and  right. 
And  when  at  last  victorious, 

From  the  conflict  you  arise, 
You'll  reap  a  harvest  glorious 

From  your  blessings  in  disguise. 


[24] 


SOME  BRONCHO  PHILOSOPHY 

I  wonder  is  it  perfume  of  the  flowers  I'm  smelling  now, 

Or  the  laurel  being  woven — will  it  fit  my  sun-tanned 
brow  ? 

And  I  wonder  will  they  bring  it  while  life's  vistas  on- 
ward spread, 

Or  wait,  before  they  fling  it,  till  the  heart  is  cold  and 
dead? 

It  is  not  so  much  the  roses  or  the  laurel  that  I  crave, 

But  the  sunshine  of  the  friendship  and  approval  of  the 
brave 

Who  are  not  afraid  to  speak  it  and  to  grasp  a  fellow's 
hands 

When  he's  slipping  cogs  and  sinking  in  the  world's  un- 
certain sands. 

That's  the  time  to  fling  the  lasso,  with  a  wreath  upon  the 

rope. 
Let  its  coils  of  strength  encircle  some  poor  struggler's 

ray  of  hope; 
For  the  moment  that  you  yank  him  where  his  feet  will 

hit  bed  rock, 
There's  a  heap  of  good  set  going  and  a  premium  on 

your  stock. 

And  I  can  not  help  believing  that  the  sunny  smiles  we 

fling, 
The  bits  of  fun  we  scatter,  with  the  songs  we  love  to 

sing, 
Are  the  harbingers  of  blessings  on  the  scrimmage  line 

of  hope 
That  will  light  the  trail  with  sunshine  as  we  journey 

o'er  life's  slope. 

[25] 


MOTHER'S  PRAYERS 

(Written  under  a  pine  tree  in  the  Black  Hills    while   Chief  of 
the  Black  Hills  Rangers  in  June,   1876.) 

In  the  dreary  hours  of  midnight, 

When  the  camp's  asleep  and  still, 
Not  a  sound  save  rippling  streamlets, 

Or  the  voice  of  whippoorwill, 
Then  I  think  of  dear,  loved  faces, 

As  I  steal  around  my  beat — 
Think  of  other  scenes  and  places, 

And  of  mother's  voice  so  sweet. 

Mother,  who  in  days  of  childhood, 

Prayed  as  only  mothers  pray; 
"Guard  his  footsteps  in  the  wildwood, 

Let  him  not  be  led  astray !" 
And  when  danger  hovered  o'er  me, 

When  my  life  was  full  of  cares, 
Then  a  sweet  form  passed  before  me, 

And  I  thought  of  mother's  prayers. 

Mother's  prayers!  Ah!  sacred  memory, 

I  can  hear  her  sweet  voice  now, 
As  upon  her  deathbed  lying, 

With  her  hand  upon  my  brow, 
Calling  on  a  Saviour's  blessing, 

Ere  she  climbed  the  Golden  Stairs. 
There's  a  sting  in  all  transgressing, 

When  I  think  of  mother's  prayers. 

And  while  here  I  tell  the  story 
Why  my  boyhood's  days  were  sad, 
[26] 


Is  there  not  some  boy  before  me 
Who  will  make  a  mother  glad? 

Swell  her  heart  with  fond  emotion, 
Drive  away  life's  bitter  cares, 

Sign  and  keep  the  pledge  for  mother — 
Heed,  oh,  heed  her  earnest  prayers! 

Oh,  my  brother,  do  not  drink  it, 

Think  of  all  your  mother  said; 
While  upon  her  deathbed  lying — 

Or  perhaps  she  is  not  dead ; 
Don't  you  kill  her,  then,  I  pray  you, 

She  has  quite  enough  of  cares ; 
Sign  the  Pledge,  and  God  will  help  you 

If  you'll  think  of  mother's  prayers. 


KIT  CARSON 

(ADIOS,  COMPANERO) 

Adios,  dear  old  hero,  in  peace  may  you  slumber, 
Adown  the  near  banks  of  the  old  Rio  Grande; 

We  think  of  your  daring  with  awe  and  with  wonder, 
As  near  to  your  tomb  now  uncovered  we  stand. 

A  rude,  simple  tablet,  a  plain  slab  of  marble, 

Is  all  that  your  comrades  have  placed  o'er  your  grave, 

Sleep  on,  loyal  heart,  while  the  wild  songbirds  warble 
An  anthem  of  praise  to  the  deeds  of  the  brave. 

The  veil  of  the  future  your  brave  soul  has  riven, 
To  drink  in  the  sweetest,  celestial  joys; 

In  advance  you  have  taken  the  trail  up  to  heaven 
To  locate  a  camp  for  the  rest  of  the  boys. 
[27] 


AT  THE  MISSION  DOOR 

A  little  newsboy,  weeping,  stood 

Outside  the  Waif's  Retreat; 
A  shaggy  dog,  his  only  friend, 

Was  crouching  at  his   feet 
With  attitude  of  perfect  trust, 

And  tender,  lovelit  eye. 
I  saw  the  boy  bend  o'er  him 

With  tear-wet  cheek  and  sigh. 

I  asked  him  why  those  bitter  tears; 

He  turned  away  his  head, 
And  answered:  "Dere's  me  only  frien' 

Since  dad  an'  mam  is  dead. 
An'  dose  folks  in  de  Mission  say 

Dat  Tip — he  can't  come  in ; 
Dat  lovin'  of  a  dog  like  dis 

Ain't  notin'  but  a  sin. 

"Well,  boss,  I  don't  know  notin'  much, 

But  say,  when  mudder  died 
Tip  foun'  me  at  her  grave  at  night, 

An'  laid  down  by  my  side ; 
An'  when  I  cried  dere  all  alone 

His  head  was  on  my  knee, 
An'  somethin'  in  his  eyes  jes'  said 

He'd  be  a  frien'  to  me. 

"Now,  boss,  you  look  into  dem  eyes, 

An'  say  if  he  can't  speak. 
I  tells  yer,  Tip's  a  gentleman, 

If  he  ain't  nice  and  sleek. 
[28] 


He  don't  snap  like  no  low-down  cur, 

His  ways  is  high  an'  fine; 
An'  when  I  t'ink  how  good  he  is 

I'm  mighty  proud  he's  mine." 

Tip  seemed  to  feel  his  master's  praise, 

He  looked  so  very"  wise, 
As  though  some  sad,  imprisoned  soul 

Were  shining  through  his  eyes. 
I  took  the  boy's  brown  hand  in  mine 

And  wiped  his  tears  away; 
I  told  him  that  no  nobler  friend 

Had  man  on  earth  to-day. 

Both  boy  and  dog  crept  to  my  heart, 

And  they  have  now  become 
The  sunshine  of  my  cheerless  hearth, 

The  blessings  of  my  home. 
And  all  that  I  shall  ask  of  Him 

Who  keeps  the  heavenly  log — 
May  I  be  worthy  that  boy's  love, 

The  friendship  of  his  dog. 


A  SUNSHINE  BOOMERANG 

When  a  bit  of  sunshine  hits  ye, 
After  passing  of  a  cloud, 
When  a  bit  of  laughter  gits  ye 

An'  yer  spine  is  feelin'  proud, 
Don't  forgit  to  up  and  fling  it 
At  a  soul  that's  feelin'  blue, 
For  the  minit  that  ye  sling  it 
It's  a  boomerang  to  you. 
[29] 


THE  SCOUTS  RETREAT 

A  cubby  hole  a-sittin'  on  a  crest, 

An'  scraggy  peaks  a-pointin'  to  the  sky, 
A  mountain  lair,  above  an  eagle's  nest, 

A  runnin'  brook,  a  cataract  close  by, 
An  orchestra  by  Mother  Nature  led, 

A  herd  o'  deer  a-browsin'  at  my  feet, 
God's  shinin'  gems  a-sparkle  overhead — 

And  evening  vespers  in  the  Scout's  Retreat. 

Almighty  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords, 

The  lonely  scout  an'  hunter  hears  thy  voice; 
How  with  the  birds  an'  bees  an'  brooks  it  chords, 

An'  earth  an'  heaven  get  closer  to  rejoice; 
Nor  pomp,  nor  pride,  nor  hypocritic  zeal, 

Nor  padded  pews,  nor  soft  and  springy  seat, 
Are  needed  where  there's  nothing  to  conceal 

From  Him,  who  watches  o'er  the  Scout's  Retreat. 


IF  YOU  SHOULD  DIE  TO-NIGHT 

Suppose  that  you  should  die  to-night ; 

Just  stop  and  think  and  hold  your  breath — 
Remember,  there  is  just  one  wink 

,'Twixt  you  and  Death — old  sure-thing  Death. 

Suppose  that  you  should  die  to-night; 

Would  someone  miss  a  sunny  ray? 
Would  someone  kiss  the  face  of  clay? 

Would  someone  watch  and  pray? 
[30] 


Suppose  that  you  should  die  to-night ; 

Would  some  dear  heart  with  love  for  you 
A  drop  impart  of  heaven's  dew, 

For  friendship  that  was  branded  true? 

Ah,  yes,  if  I  should  die  to-night, 

I  know  that  some  my  smile  would  miss; 
Some  little  waif  might  kneel  to  kiss 

The  hand  that  signs  my  name  to  this — 
If  I  should  die  to-night. 


GREETING 

When  your  rainbow  of  hope,  be  it  near  or  afar, 

Is  throwing  its  searchlight  on  you; 
When  you  feel  that  the  gate  of  success  is  ajar 

And  the  star  in  hope's  crescent  peeps  through, 

Don't  leave  a  poor  brother  or  sister  behind, 
There  are  many  hard  pulls  on  life's  slope; 

And  some  weary  brother,  nearsighted,  might  find 
His  star  through  your  own  telescope. 

And  sometimes  a  word  or  a  look  or  a  touch 
.     Of  nature,  that  makes  us  all  kin, 
A  smile,  or  a  slap  on  the  back,  will  do  much 
To  help  modest  merit  to  win. 

Come,  join  me,  O,  ye  who  have  struggled  and  won 
Just  a  mite,  with  a  smile  and  a  tear, 

And  hark  to  the  voice  that  will  whisper,  "Well  done," 
And  enjoy  a  real  happy  New  Year. 

[31] 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  DEAD 

We  were  playmates.    Little  Tommy 

Was  the  sweetest,  brightest  boy 
I  had  ever  known,  the  object 

Of  his  mother's  pride  and  joy. 
I  had  oft  heard  people  saying 

"He  will  make  his  mark  some  day" ; 
And  I  saw  that  mother  praying 

When  they  led  her  son  astray. 

I  remember — oh,  how  vivid 

Comes  the  picture  that  I  saw — 
When  I  found  my  comrade,  Tommy, 

In  the  clutches  of  the  law; 
And  a  broken-hearted  mother 

With  a  dry  and  anguished  eye 
Kissed  her  darling  boy  at  parting 

When  she  left  him,  but  to  die. 

Cigarettes —  they  were  the  starter, 

Then  dime-novels  with  their  curse; 
Then  'twas  wine  and  wicked  women 

Leading  Tom  from  bad  to  worse, 
Till  at  last  he  died  in  prison 

In  a  felon's  narrow  cell, 
And  he  bade  me  give  the  warning 

Of  the  road  that  leads  to  Hell. 

Boys,  I  wish  that  I  could  tell  you 
While  the  tears  are  in  my  eyes, 

Of  the  snares  set  to  entrap  you, 
By  the  false  pretense  and  lies 
[32] 


That  are  told  by  men  you  worship 
In  your  honest  innocence, 

And  the  papers  help  to  boom  them 
In  their  vicious  false  pretense. 

This  is  just  a  simple  story, 

But,  so  help  me  God,  'tis  true; 
And  my  dying  comrade,  Tommy, 

Bade  me  tell  it  straight  to  you. 
Will  you  heed  this  honest  warning 

When  to-night  you  go  to  bed? 
Think  it  over  and  remember 

It's  a  message  from  the  dead. 


LINES  TO  L.  L. 

August  29,  1910 

I  bow  in  homage  at  thy  shrine, 

Dear,  brilliant  pard  and  friend  of  mine. 

Unselfish,  undismayed, 
You  lighten  many  a  weary  woe, 
And  scatter  sunshine  as  you  go, 
You  keep  my  broncho  soul  aglow, 

Unroiled  and  unafraid. 

Though  words  of  mine  could  never  tell 
All  that  within  my  heart  doth  dwell, 

I  know  you  understand 
What  I  would  say — my  heart's  intent; 
I  thank  the  Lord  that  He  has  lent 
Your  gentle  presence,  and  has  sent 

Your  loyal,  guiding  hand. 
[33] 


SUNSHINE 

I  never  like  to  see  a  man  a  'rastlin'  with  the  dumps 
'Cause  in  the  game  o'  life  he  doesn't  always  catch  the 

trumps ; 

But  I  can  always  cotton  to  a  free  and  easy  cuss 
As  takes  his  dose,  and  thanks  the  Lord  it  isn't  any  wuss. 
There  ain't  no  use  o'  kickin'  and  swearin'  at  your  luck, 
You  can't  correct  the  trouble  mor'n  you  can  drown  a 

duck. 
Remember,  when  beneath  the  load  your  sufferin'  head 

is  bowed, 
That  God  '11  sprinkle  sunshine  in  the  trail  of  every 

cloud. 

If  you  should  see  a  fellow-man  with  trouble's  flag  un- 
furled, 

And  lookin'  like  he  didn't  have  a  friend  in  all  the  world, 

Go  up  and  slap  him  on  the  back,  and  holler  "how  dy 
do?" 

And  grasp  his  hand  so  warm  he'll  know  he  has  a  friend 
in  you, 

Then  ax  him  what's  a-hurtin'  'im,  an'  laugh  his  cares 
away, 

And  tell  him  that  the  darkest  night  is  just  before  the 
day. 

Don't  talk  in  graveyard  palaver,  but  say  it  right  out  loud, 

That  God  '11  sprinkle  sunshine  in  the  trail  of  every 
cloud. 

This  world  at  best  is  but  a  hash  of  pleasure  and  of 

pain, 
Some  days  are  bright  and  sunny,  and  some  all  sloshed 

with  rain, 

[34] 


And  that's  just  how  it  ought  to  be,  for  when  the  clouds 

roll  by, 
We  know  just  how  to  'predate  the  bright  and  smilin' 

sky. 
So  learn  to  take  it  as  it  comes,  and  don't  sweat  at  the 

pores 

Because  the  Lord's  opinion  doesn't  coincide  with  yours ; 
But  always  keep  rememberin'   when  cares  your  path 

enshroud, 
That  God  has  lots  of  sunshine  to  spill  behind  the  cloud. 


A  BRONCHO'S  PHILOSOPHY 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  "POME" 

Don't  blame  the  world.     It's  better 

Than  the  man  who  wants  to  be 
A  somebody,  but  lives  to  save 

The  undertaker's  fee. 
For  surely  he's  a  dead  one 

On  our  strenuous  preserves. 
A  wooden  coat,  six  feet  of  earth, 

Is  all  that  he  deserves. 

Now,  this  is  my  advice  to  you — 

But  have  you  got  the  sand 
To  buck  against  temptation, 

And  to  play  a  winnin'  hand? 
If  so,  then  shake!  God  speed  you  on; 

You'll  win,  just  persevere, 
And  if  youVe  never  been  a  man, 

Begin  with  the  New  Year. 
[35] 


A  MEMORY 

WHEN  BILL  NYE  COME  TO   HIGGINSPORT 

Pap  read  it  in  the  Weekly  Spear 

To  all  us  folks  not  long  ago, 
'At  old  Bill  Nye  was  comin'  here 

To  give  his  great,  unequalled  show; 
An'  then  he  sort  o'  laffed  an'  said 

'At  folks  would  git  their  money's  worth 
Fur  he  would  bet  his  bottom  red 

It  was  the  greatest  show  on  earth. 

Then  all  the  boys  just  buckled  down 

To  make  enough  to  take  us  in, 
A-doin'  chores  around  the  town — 

By  jinks,  we  worked  like  mortal  sin 
A-choppin'  wood  an'  shov'lin'  snow, 

An'  doin'  jobs  of  every  sort, 
Fur  we  was  bound  to  see  the  show 

When  Bill  Nye  come  to  Higginsport. 

Pap  said  he  was  the  queerest  cuss 

'At  ever  breathed  the  atmosphere, 
An'  showed  his  photygraf  to  us, 

Tuk  just  a  purpose  fur  the  Spear. 
By  jucks,  we  all  jest  laffed  outright, 

An*  mam,  she  helt  her  sides  an'  squealed- 
On  top  his  head  was  jest  as  white 

As  any  tater  ever  peeled. 

Pap  said  'at  Bill  was  in  the  war, 
But  never  had  to  march  a  bit — 

[36] 


They  had  'im  in  the  signal  corps, 

An'  when  they  thought  'twas  time  to  quit 

The  fightin'  fur  a  while,  pap  said, 

They'd  fetch  'im  out  an'  turn  'im  loose, 

An'  when  the  rebels  seed  his  head 
They  knowed  it  was  a  flag  o'  truce. 

Pap  said  'at  once  a  big  cyclone 

Come  howlin'  round  where  Bill  was  at, 
An'  he  just  stood  up  on  a  stone 

An'  lifted  up  his  ol'  white  hat. 
The  cyclone  stopped  an'  fetched  a  yell, 

Then  had  a  awful  laughin'  fit, 
An'  somehow  tuckered  out  until 

It  couldn't  blow  another  bit. 

When  pap  an'  mam  an'  sis  an'  me 

Went  down  to  Parker's  Publick  Hall, 
I  honest  was  afraid  'at  we 

Could  never  git  inside  at  all. 
It  beat  camp-meetin'  times  the  way 

The  folks  was  crowdin'  at  the  door — 
I  never  seed  a  circus  day 

Wake  up  the  town  like  that  afore. 

The  folks  inside  was  mighty  nigh 

Like  sheep  a-cuddlin'  in  the  storm, 
But  I  pushed  through  up  close  where  I 

Could  see  the  funny  cuss  perform. 
But  goshamighty!  wa'n't  I  sold 

When  Mister  Nye  come  out  to  act, 
Fur  all  the  stories  pap  had  told 

Were  forty  million  miles  from  fact. 
[37] 


He  didn't  wear  show  clothes  at  all, 

He  didn't  dance,  he  didn't  sing, 
His  doin's  wasn't  what  I  call 

A  public  show  at  all,  by  jing; 
He  hadn't  one  dissolvin'  view, 

He  didn't  on  the  tight  rope  walk — 
I  swear  to  gosh  he  didn't  do 

A  'tarnal  thing  but  grin  an'  talk. 


A  SERMON  TO  MYSELF 

(OR  TO  YOU — IF  IT  FITS) 

Don't  be  blue — just  be  true 

To  yourself  and  smile. 
Don't  you  know  the  clouds  will  go 

In  a  little  while? 

Have  some  grit — up  an'  git! 

What's  the  recompense — 
Fret  and  stew!  keepin'  blue, 

Lackin'  common  sense? 

Take  it  cool.    Whoa,  you  mule, 

Kickin'  like  a  steer! 
Half  your  trouble's  but  a  bubble: 

What  you  got  to  fear  ? 

Friends  are  honey  when  you've  money, 

Otherwise  they're  few. 
Then,  dod  rot  it,  PLAY  YOU'VE  GOT  IT- 

And  you'll  git  it,  too. 

[38] 


DOES  IT  PAY? 

It's  easy  enough  to  be  funny, 

It's  easy  enough  to  be  glad, 
When  the  larder  is  flowing  with  honey 

And  the  body  in  comfort  is  clad; 
And  it's  easy  enough  to  be  frisky, 

To  frolic  and  laugh  and  be  gay 
While  you  drink  to  your  sweetheart  in  whisky, 

But  tell  me,  my  boy,  does  it  pay? 

It's  easy  enough  to  be  jolly 

When  out  for  a  lark  with  the  boys, 
And  away  from  dear  mother  and  Molly, 

Who'd  share  all  your  sorrows  and  joys. 
And  it's  easy  enough  to  deceive  them — 

Their  sweet,  loving  hearts  to  betray; 
But  it's  selfish  and  brutal  to  grieve  them — 

And  tell  me,  my  boy,  does  it  pay? 

But  it's  easier  far  to  be  truthful, 

Straightforward  in  all  that  you  do. 
Keep  your  heart  and  your  soul  always  youthful, 

To  mother  and  sweetheart  be  true. 
And,  boys,  let  me  give  you  a  motto, 

To  keep  in  your  heart  every  day — 
Though  you  drive  a  wheelbarrow  or  auto 

Whatever  you  do,  make  it  pay. 


[39] 


THE  REPORTER 

Don't  turn  him  down — don't  scare  and  fret, 

But  greet  him  with  a  shake  and  smile ; 
And  if  you're  proper  stuff  you'll  get 
What's  coming  to  you,  and  you  bet 
He'll  do  you  justice  all  the  while. 

But  if  you're  tough — though  debonair 
And  dainty  in  your  style  of  dress — 
And  if  you  meet  him  with  a  glare, 
And  undertake  to  shed  some  swear, 
And  say  you've  nothing  to  confess — 

Well,  say !  he'll  skin  you  every  clip, 

And  smooth  you  down  as  slick  as  wax; 

And  with  his  oily,  practiced  lip, 

He'll  surely  get  you  on  the  hip, 
And  on  you  grind  his  little  axe! 

But  if  you'll  only  reason  right; 

Perhaps  he  wants  to  make  a  scoop, 
And  you  can  help  him  in  his  flight — 
He  needs  more  tail  to  fly  his  kite, 

Why,  get  in  with  him — loop  the  loop ! 

Just  give  it  to  him,  right  offhand, 

Because  he's  bound  to  get  it — see? 
The  whole  wide  world  is  his  grand  stand — 
He  won't  be  left  nor  balked  nor  fanned 
By  tenderfoot  like  you  or  me. 


[40] 


And  thus  you  find  him  every  day, 

With  bulldog  grit  and  lots  of  gall; 
And  when  he  comes  he  comes  to  stay, 
And  every  shot's  a  winnin'  play; 
Don't  chew  the  rag — play  ball! 


TO  MY  BOOK 

There's  not  a  soul  in  all  the  land 

But  loves  a  song  and  story; 
And  surely  all  can  understand, 
The  humble  poor,  the  rich  and,  grand, 
Some  little  verse,  some  simple  strand 

May  lead  to  fame  and  glory. 

Some  hungry  soul,  bowed  down   with  care, 

May  pick  you  up  and  read  you ; 
For  hungry  souls  are  everywhere, 
And  grief  and  woe,  and  dark  despair, 
For  really  happy  hearts  are  rare, 

And  souls  there  are  that  need  you. 

Then  go  your  way,  my  little  book, 

I  care  not  for  the  lucre. 
Just  scatter  sunshine  in  each  nook, 
By  roaring  stream,  by  babbling  brook, 
There's  not  in  all  the  land  a  spook 
But  you  can  play  and  euchre. 


[41] 


A  YULETIDE  BOUQUET 

TO  YOU,   MY  FRIEND 

From  out  the  larder  of  my  soul, 
Where  nature's  mystic  posies  blend 

With  fruits  and  flowers  I  fill  love's  bowl, 
And  serve  it  warm  to  you,  my  friend. 

I  cull  the  sweetest,  wildest  flowers, 
Soft-tinted  as  the  rainbow  spray, 

And  fling  to  you  from  nature's  bowers, 
To  mingle  with  December  gray. 

These  are  but  echoes  of  the  past, 
To  music  set  in  memory's  chimes ; 

The  silken  nets  that  love  has  cast 
To  catch  the  sunshine  of  my  rhymes. 

And  isn't  it  sweet  that  some  kind  deed — 
A  memory  throb,  a  God-sent  tear — 

Oft  comes  to  cultivate  the  seed 

That  we  are  sure  to  sow  each  year? 

And  so,  I'm  flinging  this  bouquet 
Of  thankfulness  and  love  to  you ; 

Sweet  buds  of  reciprocity, 

Besprinkled  with  affection's  dew. 

And  with  the  cheerful,  gay  Yuletide, 
This  is  the  hopeful  wish  I  send: 

That  love  of   God  and  man   abide 
With  you  and  yours,  my  faithful  friend. 
[42] 


THE  ELK  AND  HIS  MISSION 

Come,  stately-stepping,  noble,  grand 
And  lordly  elk,  and  take  command ; 
For  truly  thou  art  king  and  head 
Of  every  other  quadruped 
That  ever  stalked  the  forest  wide, 
Or  roamed  the  plains  from  tide  to  tide. 
A  thousand  thousand  bear  thy  name, 
Not  half  so  pure,  nor  near  so  tame 

As  thou,  O  Monarch  of  our  land! 
And  I,  a  broncho  in  the  band, 
Humble,  but  having  followed  you, 
I  would  be  honest,  brave  and  true; 
With  head  erect  and  eyes  aglow, 
With  that  fraternal  overflow 
That  comes  to  irrigate  the  soul 
When  Mother  Nature  has  control. 
I  feel  her  touch,  I  catch  the  strain, 
And  I  am  with  her  once  again. 

Let's  take  a  faltering  brother's  hand, 
And  when  he  fails  to  understand 
The   blessings — sometimes    in   disguise — 
The  blanks  that  oft  precede  the  prize, 
That  come  to  test  his  fitness  for  ' 
Some  mighty  trust,  some  mission,  or 
Some  greater  struggle,  when  the  test 
Will  rack  the  soul  and  spoil  his  rest; 
Ah !  then's  the  time  to  take  his  hand 
And  try  to  make  him  understand. 
[43] 


And  when  at  last  he  sees  the  light, 
Through  gloomy  caverns  of  the  night, 
And  glints  of  gladness  glorifies 
The  soul  that's  peeping  through  his  eyes, 
Sometimes  a  word,  a  look,  a  smile, 
Will  tell  you  it  is  worth  the  while. 

He  sees  the  sunshine  through  his  tears, 
He  laughs  at  all  his  fretful  fears, 
And  thanks  the  great  Exalted,  who 
Has  made  him  brave  and  strong  and  true ; 
And  when  his  eyes  are  clear  of  mist, 
He  finds  the  rod  that  he  has  kissed 
Upholding  him,  and  points  the  way 
To  help  some  other  wayward  stray 
Adrift  upon  the  Sea  of  Sorrow— 
And  points  him  to  the  brighter  morrow. 


BET  YOUR  LAST  DOLLAR  ON  IT 

TO  THE  B.   P.   O.    E. 

If  his  eyes  are  ever  sparkling  with  the  jolly  light  of 
fun, 

You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 
If  his  tongue  is  ever  ready  with  a  story  or  a  pun, 
You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 
If  he  slaps  you  on  the  shoulder  in  fraternal  sort  o'  way 
And  asks  you  how  you're  makin'  it  in  life's  uncertain 

play, 
And  casts  some  sunshine  in  your  skies  if  they  are  gettin' 

gray, 

You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 
[44] 


If  he  walks  the  streets  with  snappy  tread  an'  independ- 
ent air, 

You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 
If  he  smiles  and  snaps  his  fingers  in  the  threat'ning  face 
o'  care, 

You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 
If  he  tells  you  his  religion  is  the  good  old  Golden  Rule, 
Fears  not  that  his  hereafter  will  be  anything  but  cool, 
An'  if  he  at  hypocrisy  kicks  like  a  Georgia  mule, 

You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 

If  his  ears  are  ever  open  to  the  cry  of  sore  distress, 
You  can  bet  your  bottom  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 

If  he  reverences  womanhood,  in  silks  or  shabby  dress, 
You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 

If  his  pocket  'round  the  edges  is  by  frequent  usage 
frayed, 

By  the  visits  of  a  ready  hand  to  lend  the  worthy  aid, 

And  by  thanks  of  beneficiary  he  feels  that  he's  repaid, 
You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 

In  short,  if  you  should  meet  a  man  who  is  a  man  all 

through, 

You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 
A  man  who  does  things  on  the  jump  when  there  are 

things  to  do, 

You  can  bet  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 
A  man  who  love's  his  country's  flag  next  to  his  faithful 

wife, 
A  man  who  courts  good  fellowship  and  shies  away  from 

strife, 

You  need  not  be  a  bit  afraid  to  bet  your  bloomin'  life 
Right  with  your  last  round  dollar  he's  an  Elk. 

[45] 


THIS  AIN'T  POETRY— IPS  GOD'S  TRUTH 

Don't  dilly-dally  when  you  know  you're  right. 
Don't  count  the  cost  in  case  you  have  to  fight — 
As  fight  you  must,  if  you  would  dare  assail 
The  outlaws  that  will  camp  upon  your  trail 
And  lay  for  you,  like  cowards  that  they  are, 
Too  cunning  to  declare  an  open  war. 

Perhaps  religion's  cloak  may  serve  to  blind 

The  people  for  a  time;  but  you  will  find 

That  strength  of  character  and  spinal  grit 

Will  win  against  deceit  and  polished  wit; 

Nor  rank,  nor  pull,  nor  high  exalted  station, 

Nor  brains,  nor  form,  nor  bogus  reputation 

Can  stand  against  the'  strenuous,  staunch  and  steady, 

Brave,  true  and  honest  followers  of  Teddy. 

To  Hades  with  the  frenzied  finance  tricks! 

His  army  has  increased  since  nineteen-six 

Despite  the  millions,  billions  that's  behind 

"The  House  of  Lords,"  the  senate — senile  kind, 

May  influence  some,  there's  those  who  can't  be  bought ; 

And  even  senatorial  thieves  are  caught 

Like  what's-his-name — convicted,  thank  the  Lord — 

Convicted,  yes,  and  killed;  they  can't  afford 

To  live — and  that  is  why  that  one  who  died- 

Was  just  a  simple  case  of  grafter's  suicide. 


[46] 


THE  SUNSHINE  TRAIL 

There's  a  world  of  satisfaction 

In  this  broncho  soul  of  mine. 
Though  I  haven't  got  a  dollar 

Of  my  own,  I'm  feeling  fine ; 
For  I've  just  got  down  to  bed  rock, 

And  the  nuggets  that  I  find 
I  scatter  with  the  sunshine, 

On  the  trail  I  leave  behind. 

With  a  stomach  like  an  ostrich, 

And  a  glorious  appetite; 
With  a  God-sent  reciprocity 

That  greets  me  every  night, 
When  with  love  and  song  and  laughter 

Hope  and  charity  combined, 
I  scatter  wads  of  sunshine 

On  the  trail  I  leave  behind. 

Brother,  mine,  the  Eldorado 

Where  your  soul  will  strike  it  rich, 
You  will  find  in  waifs  of  Slumville 

And  your  brothers  in  the  ditch. 
Shed  your  kids  and  patent  leathers, 

To  all  ridicule  be  blind, 
For  there's  millions  in  the  sunshine 

On  the  trail  you  leave  behind. 


[47] 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  FATHER  JUDGE 

Christ  died  for  men  and  so  did  he — 

The  sweetest  soul  I  ever  knew, 
And  when  he  grasped  the  hand  of  me, 

His  honest,  laughing  eyes  of  blue 
Dispelled  the  clouds  from  out  my  sky, 

And  warmed  the  chill  from  off  my  heart; 
And  when  it  comes  my  time  to  die 

I  pray  we  won't  be  far  apart. 

But  if  there  is  a  gulf  between 

The  Father  and  the  wayward  stray, 
His  love  will  tell  what  might  have  been, 

And  Christ  will  open  up  the  way. 
And,  true  as  there's  a  God  above, 

I  know  with  all  my  heart  and  soul 
That  all  who  suffer  for  the  love 

Of  truth  will  reach  the  heavenly  goal. 

Not  for  a  creed  or  circumstance 

Would  he  a  helping  hand  refuse; 
Nor  pomp,  nor  power,  nor  great  finance 

Could  change  his  broad  and  noble  views. 
He  saw  his  duty.    Who  can  tell 

How  much  we  loved  him  in  the  West? 
But  He,  who  doeth  all  things  well, 

To  his  tired  soul  has  whispered,  "Rest." 

When  last  I  gazed  into  his  face — 
His  dear,  dead  face,  so  truly  kind, 

A  halo  seemed  to  light  the  place, 
For  God  had  left  the  smile  behind. 
[48] 


And  hardy  miners  bowed  their  heads 
And  outlaws  wiped  a  tear  away, 

And  fever  patients  in  their  beds 
Were  conscious  of  a  loss  that  day. 

God's  martyr — His  adopted  son — 

He  died,  dear  friends,  for  you  and  me ; 
He  surely  died  as  Christ  had  done 

In  love,  in  truth,  in  poverty. 
I  crave  not  wealth  nor  care  for  fame, 

Nor  wealth  nor  fame  do  I  begrudge, 
But,  Lord,  permit  me  once  again 

To  clasp  the  hand  of  Father  Judge. 


I'VE  GOT  THE  BRAND 

Look  where  the  eagle  builds  his  nest, 
Far  up  on  yonder  mountain  crest 
And  where  his  young  in  safety  rest — 

Without  a  Cctre. 

Look  where  the  eagle  plumes  his  flight 
And  soars  above  the  highest  height, 
Where  starry  vigils  pierce  the  night — 

God's  face  is  there. 

Look  deep  into  the  deepest  dell, 
Look  deeper  still  where  angels  fell, 
And  in  the  depths  of  deepest  hell 

And  black  despair. 

Look  straight  with  eyes  that  know  no  fear, 
And  you  will  see  and  feel  and  hear 
The  unafraid  who  love  to  cheer — 
God's  face  is  there. 
[49] 


Oh,  brother  mine,  and  sisters,  too, 

Love's  lariat  encircles  you. 

Don't  stretch  your  good  face  out  o'  true; 

Give  me  your  hand. 

You're  just  a  wayward  maverick  stray; 
Drive  superstitious  ghosts  away, 
And  join  God's  brotherhood  to-day — 

And  take  the  brand. 

God's  brand!  Why,  every  little  flower 
That  blossoms  in  His  richest  bower 
Is  branded  with  His  wondrous  power 

And  mighty  hand. 
And  thus  in  everything  I  see, 
From  bursting  buds  to  tallest  tree, 
God's  face  is  peeping  out  at  me — 

I've  got  the  brand. 


TO  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  GENERAL  JOHN  B. 
GORDON 

Fair  daughter  of  a  noble  sire, 

I  thank  thee  from  my  very  soul ; 
And  all  I  wish  for  or  desire, 
The  height  to  which  I  would  aspire, 
Is  where  he  signs  God's  muster  roll. 

For  men  are  few  who  died  like  him, 

And  men  are  few  who  lived  so  pure, 
But  they  who  try  to  follow  him 
With  truth  their  motto,  lamps  all  trim, 
Will  read  their  title  clear,  I'm  sure. 
[50] 


And  yonder  where  eternal  peace 

And  love  shall  reign  forevermore, 
The  man  who  said,  "Let  us  have  peace," 
And  he  who  said  that  "War  must  cease," 
Are  comrades  on  the  other  shore. 

God !  how  I  pity  those  who  hate 

The  bravest  of  the  blue  and  gray, 
And  fearlessly  I  dare  to  state 
That  such  as  they  were  always  late 
Or  from  the  battle  far  away. 

God  bless  the  "Reb"  that  shot  me  down, 

The  very  thought  rolls  out  a  tear, 
For  such  as  he  will  wear  a  crown 
While  Hell  will  do  the  coward  brown 
Who  did  his  fighting  in  the  rear. 

Sweet  daughter  of  my  noble  friend, 
Among  the  "Yanks"  in  Hampshire's  hills, 

Besides  the  simple  verses  penned, 

These  honest  sentiments  I  send 
With  no  aristocratic  frills. 


OUR  COUNTRY 

Our  Country  more  than  ever  blessed, 
Our  Flag  by  North  and  South  caressed, 
Our  purpose  that  our  love  increase 
For  TRUTH,  FIDELITY  and  PEACE. 

[51] 


TRIBUTE  TO  MY  OLD  PARD,  "TOM"  WALSH 

We  first  clasped  the  hand  of  friendship  in  the  stirring 

old  Black  Hills  days, 
When  men  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  repelling  the  mad 

forays 
Of  red  men,  in  paint  and  feathers,  resisting  intruders 

bold 
Who  threaded  the  plains  by  thousands,  drawn  thence 

by  the  lure  of  gold. 
Ah !  those  were  the  days  of  heroes ;  brave  men  took 

their  lives  in  hand, 
Dared  all  of  the  border  perils  in  reaching  the  sought- 

for  land; 
Men  strong  in  their  rugged  manhood  were  those  of  that 

early  day — 
For  cowardly  ones  never  started,  and  the  weaker  ones 

died  on  the  way. 

With  the  valorous  Black  Hills   Rangers   together  we 

rode  the  trail 
Protecting  the  hardy  miners  who  toiled  in  the  gulch  or 

swale, 
Repelling  the  savage  Indians  who  swarmed  in  the  hills 

around 
While  the  magic  City  of  Custer  was  rising  up  from  the 

ground. 
And  in  all  of  that  band  of  Rangers  there  was  none  more 

heroic  than  he 
Who  has  passed  from  earth's  busy  whirlpool  to  the 

peace  of  eternity, 
And  yet  with  his  rough-clad  comrades  he  was  lovable, 

gentle,  mild, 

[52] 


The  heart  in  his  bosom  tender  as  heart  of  a  woman  or 
child. 

Then  widely  apart  we  drifted,  as  barks  on  a  restless  sea, 
And  the  days  when  we  toiled  together  remained  but  a 

memory ; 
He  anchored  in  Port  of  Riches,  I  drifted  with  many  a 

tide 

Till  on  current  of  chance  I  floated  again  to  my  com- 
rade's side. 
He  basked  in  the  Sun  of  Fortune,  I  still  just  as  poor  as 

when 
In  the  early  days  of  the  border  we  battled  with  savage 

men. 
Yet  wealth  had  not  changed  his  nature  nor  cooled  the 

love  of  my  chum — 
The  clasp  of  his  hand  was  hearty ;  he  yet  was  the  same 

old  Tom. 

Together  we  sat  as  comrades  and  talked  of  the  days 

of  old, 
When  we  toiled  in  the  hills  out  yonder  in  search  of 

the  hidden  gold; 
Told  stories  and  laughed  together  as  we  did  on  many 

a  night 

Ere  we  sought  for  rest  in  our  blankets  in  the  camp- 
fire's  flickering  light. 
Between  us  the  hand  of  fortune  had  raised  no  barrier 

high, 
He  yet  was  the  same  true  comrade  as  when  he  was 

poor  as  I. 
The  door  of  his  home  was  opened,  and  warm  was  his 

welcoming  hand 

[53] 


As  if  it  were  offered  in  greeting  to  the  greatest  man 
of  the  land. 

The  heart  that  was  stilled  forever  when  he  sank  to 

eternal  rest 
Was  as  kind  and  noble  as  ever  was  housed  in  a  human 

breast ; 

And  the  news  that  his  gentle  spirit  from  the  Earth- 
land  had  winged  away 
Left  a  sting  in  the  hearts  of  thousands  of  friends  of 

the  early  day. 
Though  shaft  of  the  purest  marble  o'er  his  silent  sleep 

may  arise, 
And  point  as  consoling  finger  towards  his  home  in  the 

arching  skies, 
A  token  of  love  more  sacred  will  be  cherished  in  every 

heart, 
By  the  comrades  of  old  who  knew  him  in  reclaiming 

the  West  took  part. 


TO  MY  WINCHESTER 

Sweetheart  of  mine, 
For  years  thy  loyalty  has  proven  true 

As  is  the  steel  of  which  thou  are  created; 
There  are  no  fickle  vanities  in  you, 

Thy  constancy  might  well  be  emulated 
By  beauteous  sweetheart  of  a  softer  mould, 

Whose  eyes  gleam  love  on  every  new  adorer, 
Who  bends  the  pliant  knee  to  god  of  gold 

And  blesses  every  knight  who  bows  before  her 
At  Cupid's  shrine. 
[54] 


My  pretty  pard, 
As  loyal  helpmate  thou  hast  ever  stood 

Facing  with  me  the  dangers  placed  before  us, 
Faithful  'mid  trying  scenes  of  war  and  blood 

As  when  the  skies  of  peace  shone  clearly  o'er  us; 
'Mid  all  the  trying  hours  of  olden  days, 

When  peril  threatened,  thou  hast  never  failed  me — 
Loyal  wert  thou  in  many  deadly  frays, 

When  painted  foemen  wickedly  assailed  me, 
And  pressed  me  hard. 

Thou  art  not  sweet 
In  disposition  unto  all,  my  dear; 

To  some  thou  art  most  spiteful  in  thine  anger — 
Many  have  fled  in  abject  fright  to  hear 

Thy  ringing  tones  in  war's  resounding  clangor. 
Although  thy  face  may  gleam  with  polished  smiles, 

Thou  art  a  spitfire  when  the  scene  is  fitting, 
And  gone  are  all  thy  sweet  coquettish  wiles 

When  foes  of  mine  their  battle  powers  are  pitting 
In  war's  mad  heat. 

I  love  thee,  dear, 
And  love  of  loyal  man  was  never  placed 

Upon  a  more  deserving,  true  companion, 
In  Western  wanderings,  when  peril  faced 

Our  daily  life,  on  plain,  in  gloomy  canyon. 
My  trust  in  thee  has  never  been  betrayed, 

True  as  thy  tempered  steel  I've  always  found  thee, 
In  scenes  of  danger  I  was  not  afraid 

Though  savage  foemen  lurked  in  rocks  around  me, 
For  thou  wert  near. 
[55] 


Come,  dear  one,  fling 
Thy  moody  silence  off,  and  lift  thy  voice 

In  song  as  in  the  days  now  gone  forever ; 
For  all  the  dangers  past  let  us  rejoice, 

I'll  beat  the  time  with  thy  quick-acting  lever. 
Sing  in  thy  wildest  tones,  let  not  a  note 

Be  sweet  and  soft  as  note  from  tender  woman; 
Sing  as  thou  didst  when  from  thy  fiery  throat 

We  hurled  defiance  at  a  foe  inhuman. 
Sing,  sweetheart,  sing! 


THE  MOUNTAIN  BOY'S  LETTER 

When  General  U.  S.  Grant  returned .  from  his  trip  around 
the  world  in  the  year  1878,  "The  Color' Guard"  was  produced 
at  the  California  Theatre,  in  San  Francisco,  under  the  auspices 
of  Lincoln  Post,  G.  A.  R.  The  cast  included  Mr.  Thomas  W. 
Keene  and  entire  California  Theatre  Company,  as  also  Cap- 
tain John  Wallace  Crawford,  who  had  been  especially  requested 
to  play  the  part  of  "Bob  Mason"  by  Mr.  Keene,  who  wanted 
a  "natural  interpreter"  for  the  part. 

General  U.  S.  Grant,  Mrs.  Grant,  Colonel  Fred.  Grant  and 
John  Russell  Young  occupied  a  box  at  the  California  Theatre 
at  this  performance,  and  during  the  course  of  the  dialogue  Mr. 
Keene  said  to  Captain  "Jack":  "I  understand  since  the  war 
broke  out  you've  had  an  eruption  of  poetic  fire,  and  that  the 
boys  had  you  write  a  letter  to  General  Grant.  You  know  the 
General  has  just  returned  from  his  long  tour  of  the  world, 
and  I'm  sure  he'd  be  glad  to  hear  it."  Captain  Crawford,  as 
"Bob  Mason,"  replied:  "If  you-uns  are  satisfied  with  we- 
uns'  doggerel,  all  right."  Then  throwing  his  rifle  across  his 
shoulder  and  stepping  to  the  front  of  the  stage  and  saluting 
General  Grant,  he  recited  this  dialect  poem: 

Dear  Gin'ral: 

I  ain't  no  great  scholar, 
An'  I  never  done  nothin'  to  brag, 
'Cept  this,  I  was  one  of  the  outfit 
As  fought  for  our  Star-Spangled  Flag. 
[56] 


An'  today,  while  yer  toasted  by  scholars, 

An'  big  guns  as  make  a  great  noise, 
Why,  I  thought  it  the  square  thing  to  write  you 

An'  chip  in  a  word  from  the  boys. 

'Cause,  yer  see,  we  ain't  got  the  collat'r'l, 

Nor  the  larnin'  to  dish  it  up  right ; 
But  you'll  find  should  thar'  be  any  trouble, 

Our  boys  are  still  ready  to  fight. 
As  fur  you,  if  they  didn't  corral  you, 

You'd   shake   comrades'   hands   that  you   seed, 
An'  that's  why  I  wanted  to  tell  you 

We'll  jest  take  the  word  fur  the  deed. 

But  you're  back,  and  the  men  of  all  nations 

War'  proud  to  do  honor  to  you, 
An'  I  reckon,  Ulysses,  you  told  'em 

You  war'  proud  o'  yer  comrades  in  blue. 
For  you,  we  are  sure,  of  all  others, 

Remembered  your  boys  in  the  ranks, 
Who  follered  you  into  the  battle, 

An'  gallantly  guarded  the  flanks. 

So  welcome,  a  thousand  times,  welcome; 

Our  land  is  ablaze  with  delight ; 
Our  people  give  thanks  for  your  safety — 

Your  comrades  are  happy  to-night. 
We  know  you  are  weary  and  tuckered, 

But  seem'  as  you're  a  new  comer, 
You'll  Grant  us  one  glance  on  this  line,  if 

In  readin'  "it  takes  you  all  summer." 

The  above  poem  was  telegraphed  across  the  continent,  and 
appeared  in  Grant's  "Tour  of  the  World,"  published  in  Chi- 
cago, and,  with  the  exception  of  Bret  Harte's  "Heathen 
Chinee,"  is  the  only  poem  ever  wired  from  ocean  to  ocean.— 
Will  L.  Vischer,  in  the  Denver  Tribune. 

[57] 


IF  I  BUT  COULD 

If  I  could  clothe  each  jeweled  thought 

That  comes  to  me  from  Nature's  bowers 
In  classic  language,  such  as  taught 

Away  from  western  woods  and  flowers, 
If  I  could  sing  the  sweet  refrains 

That  in  my  soul  in  silence  cluster, 
From  many  a  heart  I'd  strike  the  chains, 

And  give  the  star  of  hope  new  lustre. 

If  I  could  scatter  all  the  gems 

That  light  my  soul  in  darkened  places, 
Could  pluck  the  hope-buds  from  their  stems, 

And  wreathe  them  o'er  despondent  faces, 
If  I  but  had  the  power  to  stay 

The  blighting  hand  of  pain  and  sorrow; 
The  human  flowers  that  wilt  to-day 

Would  raise  their  heads  and  bloom  to-morrow. 

If  from  the  Master  Hand  above 

To  me  the  longed-for  power  was  given 
To  change  all  bitterness  to  love, 

Of  every  earthly  hell  make  heaven, 
The  lowering  clouds  would  quickly  flee 

Before  the  light  which  followed  after, 
And  every  wave  of  Life's  broad  sea 

Would  gleam  and  shine  with  sparkling  laughter. 


[58] 


TO  ONE  OF  GOD'S  QUEENS 

MRS.  H.  S.  K. 

When  first  I  took  your  hand  in  mine, 

And  looking  in  your  eyes  to  see, 
A  something  there  almost  divine, 

Was  pictured  in  the  soul  of  me; 
And  as  you  whispered  sweet  and  low, 

"The  boys  will  bless  you  and  rejoice, 
Because  of  love  that  you  bestow," 

I  thought  I  heard  my  mother's  voice. 

And  as  the  balmy  days  were  spent, 

In  praise  and  prayer  and  soulful  song, 
My  heart  was  full  and  sweet  content 

Lit  up  my  soul  and  made  me  strong; 
And  when  I  saw  upon  your  cheek, 

A  mirrored  gem  a-sparkle  there, 
I  surely  heard  an  angel  speak, 

And  saw  my  mother's  face  so  fair. 

God  bless  you,  dear,  kind,  gentle  soul! 

If  He  should  call  you  ere  I  go, 
As  through  the  pearly  gates  you  stroll 

You'll  meet  my  mother  there,  I  know. 
And  she  will  surely  show  you  through 

The  Lord's  domain,  and  give  you  joy, 
Because  of  friendship  pure  and  true 

You  gave  to  her  wild  wayward  boy. 

[59] 


HOWDY,  TEDDY?     HOWDY  DO? 

Written  for  his  ranch  friend,   Colonel  Roosevelt 

Howdy,  Teddy?    Howdy  do? 
How's  the  world  bin  usin'  you  ? 
How'd  yer  strenyusness  come  on 
All  the  time  that  you've  bin  gone  ? 
Gee,  but  yer  a-lookin'  good, 
Seemed  to  thrive  on  jungle  food, 
Or  was  it  yer  right  smart  bit 
O'  huntin'  makes  you  look  so  fit? 

Read  'bout  yer  doin's  there, 

Where  the  wild  beasts  make  their  lair, 

Roamin'   round  through  jungles  and 

Trampin'  over  desert  sand 

Till  the  native  niggers  swore 

You  was  IT,  and  then  some  more; 

Made  'em  stir  their  stumps  a  few 

Tryin'  to  keep  in  sight  of  you. 

Read  how  you  in  strenyus  way 
There  in  London  made  a  play; 
One  that  sort  of  made  'em  sit 
Up  and  notice  things  a  bit. 
By  a  dextrous  turn  o'  wrist, 
Give  the  lion's  tail  a  twist 
Till  the  critter  howled,  an'  its 
Keepers  throwed  a  bunch  o'  fits. 

Kep'  close  cases  on  you,  Ted, 
Through  the  stories  that  we  read, 
An'  we  got,  I'm  free  to  say, 
Prouder  of  you  every  day. 
[60] 


An'  we're  glad  to  see  you  back, 
Red  an'  yaller,  white  and  black, 
Stretch  a  hand  to  welcome  you, 
Howdy,  Teddy  ?  Howdy  do  ? 


TO  ANDREW  CARNEGIE 

(Lines  written  on  the  fly-leaf  of  Crawford's  Broncho  Book 
of  poems,  which  the  author  presented  to  his  friend,  Andrew 
Carnegie.) 

I  have  no  regrets  to  offer 

With  this  Broncho  Book  I  proffer 
To  the  greatest  Educator  in  the  world, 

I  am  free  and  independent, 

And  a  lineal  descendant 
Of  "Scots  wha  hae"  who  Freedom's  flag  unfurled. 

I'm  not  begging;  I'm  not  preaching, 

But  my  Broncho  soul  is  reaching 
For  the  fearless,  reckless  boys  misunderstood; 

Some  have  genius,  just  like  Andy, 

Some  need  books,  advice  and  candy, 
But  Andy  lacking  all  of  those  made  good. 

Well  I'm  no  sae  far  behind  ye, 
But  I'm  no  a-braggin',  mind  ye, 
Tho'  I'm  richer  far  than  you  can  ever  be, 
For  you  never  found  such  pleasures 
In  your  richest,  rarest  treasures, 
As  I  find  in  these  wee  gems  God  gave  to  me. 
Christmas f  1908, 

[61] 


A  SCOUTS  GREETING 

TO  GENERAL  WESLEY  MERRITT 

(Published  with  the  following  lines  in  The  Boston  Sunday 
Post,  February  14,  1897: 

"The  following  poem  by  Captain  Jack  Crawford,  the  poet 
scout,  was  written  on  the  train  on  his  way  back  East  recently, 
and  sent  to  the  Loyal  Legion  of  the  West  members  in  St. 
Paul,  where  it  was  read  at  a  reception  given  in  honor  of  their 
newly-chosen  leader,  General  Wesley  Merritt,  U.S.A.  Captain 
Crawford  was  appointed  chief  of  scouts  by  General  Merritt 
during  the  Sitting  Bull  campaign,  just  after  the  Custer  mas- 
sacre on  August  24,  1876.  In  the  following  September  Craw- 
ferd  carried  the  New  York  H&rald's  special  message  from 
Slim  Buttes  to  Fort  Laramie,  350  miles,  in  three  and  a  half 
days,  killing  two  horses  and  outriding  five  relays  of  couriers. 
For  this  he  was  paid  $500  and  expenses.") 

Dear  General: 

My  duty  trail  is  leading 

On  toward  the  borders  of  the  sunrise  land, 
And  as  along  the  gleaming  rails  I'm  speeding, 

My  brain  is  flashing  rhymings  to  my  hand. 
The  warmest  admiration  prompts  this  greeting — 

My  admiration  for  a  soldier  true, 
Whose  record  as  a  warrior  is  meeting 

To-night  a  tribute  from  the  boys  in  blue. 

When  treason  with  uplifted  hand  was  dealing 

Its  hardest  blows  against  the  Union's  breast, 
And  loyal  leaders  eager  were  appealing 

For  succor  from  the  North  and  East  and  West, 
Your  bright  sword  flashed  responsive  to  the  slogan, 

And  with  the  heroes  now  beneath  the  sod, 
Grant,  Sherman,  Sheridan,  McPherson,  Logan, 

You  took  your  stand  for  Liberty  and  God. 
[62] 


Your  record  in  the  fray  needs  no  recalling, 

'Tis  known  in  every  household  in  the  land — 
When  shot  and  shell  like  hail  were  round  you  falling, 

Like  man  of  iron  you  led  your  brave  command. 
On  many  a  field  your  prowess  in  the  battle 

Inspired  your  men  to  deeds  of  Spartan  mould, 
And  led  them  on  undaunted  'mid  the  rattle 

Of  cannon  where  the  war  waves  fiercest  rolled. 

When  that  great  fratricidal  war  was  ended, 

Your  warrior  heart  yet  sought  new  fields  of  fray; 
From  out  the  West  appealing  cries  ascended, 

Where  enemies,  more  fierce  than  those  in  gray, 
With  wild  ferocity  were  madly  sweeping 

Amid  the  settlers  of  the  Western  plains, 
And  flames  from  hard-earned  homes,  were  wildly  leap- 
ing 

Into  the  air  o'er  sacrificed  remains. 

Through  all  the  savage  wars  you  rode  undaunted, 

And  scattered  terror  to  the  redskin  foe — 
Where'er  the  flag  of  Merritt's  troopers  flaunted, 

The  bugle  notes  of  victory  would  blow. 
In  rains  and  snows,  through  trials  and  privation, 

You  hung  with  stern  persistence  to  the  trail, 
Until  the  Indian  foe  in  consternation 

Threw  down  his  arms  beneath  your  leaden  hail. 

We  of  the  buckskin  loved  you  and  admired  you, 
For  well  we  knew  on  every  bloody  field, 

The  valor  of  a  warrior  true  inspired  you 

With  arm  of  steel  the  gleaming  sword  to  wield. 

O'er  all  the  savage  trails  we  rode  together, 

[63] 


Through  mountain  pass  and  o'er  the  sandy  plains; 
In  burning  suns,  or  winter's  fiercest  weather, 

The  same  warm  patriot  blood   coursed  thro'  your 
veins. 

To-night,  with  loving  comrades  gathered  'round  you, 

When  joy  and  pleasure  hold  despotic  sway, 
We  absent  ones  recall  the  ties  which  bound  you 

Close  to  our  hearts  in  many  a  savage  fray. 
And  as  you  listen  to  the  friendly  greeting 

Of  comrades,  as  the  merry  moments  fly, 
Let  but  one  thought  o'er  the  back  trail  go  fleeting 

Unto  the  buckskinned  boys  of  days  gone  by. 

God  bless  you,  General,  and  scatter  pleasure 

With  bounteous  hand  along  your  trail  of  life; 
May  floods  of  sunshine,  copious,  without  measure, 

Beat  back  each  threatening  cloud  of  care  or  strife ; 
And  when  your  honored  sword  is  sheathed  forever — 

When  hand  of  death  has  cut  the  earthly  tie — 
May  angel  escort  guide  you  o'er  the  river, 

Safe  to  the  great  headquarters  up  on  high. 


CAMP  FIRE  SPARKS 

When  'round  the  camp  fire  comrades  sit, 

In  open  air  or  canvas  tent, 
The  chambers  of  each  heart  are  lit 

With  sparks  of  fun  and  sentiment. 

[64] 


WOMAN'S  INFLUENCE 

TO   MRS.   M.   M.    B. 

Dear  friend,  what  a  halo  of  sunshine  and  glory 

Your  womanly  wisdom  wove  into  my  soul. 
With  clear  intuition  you  brought  out  my  story, 

And  somehow  my  life  seemed  just  then  to  unroll. 
Thank  God  for  the  love-light  that  sometimes  is  given, 

That  opens  the  windows  of  glory  to  me; 
That  gives  to  my  peepers  a  glimmer  of  heaven 

And  pours  oil  of  peace  on  a  troublesome  sea. 

Thank  God  for  the  influence — essence  of  sweetness — 

That  reaches  my  soul  with  a  carol  and  thrill ; 
Thank  God  for  the  wonderful  way,  the  completeness 

In  which  He  is  guiding  me  over  life's  hill. 
Oh,  thank  Him,  ye  men,  for  that  moment  of  giving 

A  helpmate  to  guide  your  weak  steps  through  the 

world ; 
She  makes  every  moment  more  worthy  of  living 

And  points  to  the  flag  of  ENDEAVOR  unfurled. 

Thank  God  for  the  influence — essence  of  sweetness — 

Though  falter  your  feet  over  forbidden  way, 
That  hold  you  and  love  you,  while  praying — caressing, 

And  follow  your  pathway  where'er  it  may  lay, 
So  leaving  our  sorrows  to  heaven's  adjusting, 

Come  stand  on  the  plane  where  no  tempter  can  dope, 
Where  womanhood  places  us,  loving  and  trusting — 

The  up-turning,  deep-winding  highway  of  Hope. 


[65] 


OUR  ROOSEVELT 

Hail,  Columbia's  grandest  son, 
Theodore,  the  strenuous  one, 
Lincoln,  Grant  and  Washington, 
All  combined  is  he. 

Since  the  King  of  Peace  is  dead, 
Prince  and  King  is  Yankee  Ted ; 
Grander  hero  never  led 
Truth  to  victory ! 

Manhood's  greatest,  grandest  flower, 
Honored  by  each  earthly  Power 
Is  Roosevelt,  hero  of  the  hour, 
Champion  of  the  free. 

Strains  of  blood  from  Huguenot, 
Sturdy  Dutch  and  brawny  Scot, 
His  ancestors  nobly  fought — 
Fought  for  liberty. 

Absolutely  undisguised, 
He  all  graft  and  tricks  despised; 
He's  honored,  toasted,  lionized, 
By  the  entire  world. 

May  the  Power  that  made  him  great, 
Keep  him  sane  and  safe  and  straight; 
Captain  of  our  Ship  of  State — 
Glory's  flag  unfurled. 

World's  Ambassador  of  Peace — 
All  inhuman  wars  must  "cease ; 
May  your  power  for  good  increase, 
While  we  follow  you. 
[66] 


tO  MIRIAM 

Conceived  in  love,  as  pure  as  God's  ozone, 
Sired  by  a  King,  a  princely  thoroughbred; 

Cradled  in  perfect  trust  on  Love's  blest  throne 
Where  Truth  is  all  aflame  and  Fear  is  dead. 

With  industry  abloom,  God  in  command, 

True  hearts  to  love  and  guide  her  on  life's  way; 
I  look  into  her  eyes  and  understand 

The  classic  chimes  of  Love's  sweet,  soothing  lay. 

O  God,  I  thank  Thee  for  the  pure,  sweet  love 
That  comes  to  me  from  such  a  child  as  this; 

Her  voice  so  like  the  cooing  of  a  dove, 

Her  smile  so  like  the  sun's  first  morning  kiss. 

And  as  she  grows  more  queenly  day  by  day, 
More  like  the  mother  flower,  whose  soul  imparts 

Those  brilliant  gems  that  sparkle  in  love's  spray, 

God  make  her  like  the  mother — Queen  of  Hearts. 


TO  MARK  TWAIN 

December  25,  1909 

("Dear  Mark  Twain:     On  Xmas  Day  when  my  heart  went 

out  to  you  in  your  sorrow  I  scribbled  the  enclosed  lines; 

although  no  words  could  express  the  deep  sympathy  I  feel.") 

Congratulations  on  your  grit, 
Your  bravery  when  hardest  hit — 
We've  only  got  to  wait  a  bit 

For  Death's  tattoo, 
And  after  taps  a  new  delight — 
[67] 


He  doeth  all  things  well  and  right — 
God's  reveille  will  reunite 
Your  Jean  and  you. 

Else  why  the  wondrous  love  you  feel, 
The  sorrows  you  can  not  conceal  ? 
Christ  came  again  today  to  heal 

Your  wounded  heart. 
Look  up,  brave  soul,  be  not  afraid, 
Be  not  discouraged  nor  dismayed — 
God  knows  that  you  have  always  played 

An  honest  part. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  PICK  AND  THE  DRILL 

(Read  at  the  Mining  Congress  and  dedicated  to  "The  Butte 
Miners'  Union,"  Sept.  2,  1902.) 

I  love  the  man  with  the  pick  and  drill 

And  courage  that  knows  no  fear; 
The  hero  bold,  in  search  of  gold, 

With  the  hope-star  ever  near, 
To  see  him  climb  the  mountains  high 

And  dig  in  the  deepest  dell, 
Inspires  me  through  with  a  love  so  true 

That  I  want  to  whoop  and  yell. 

I  love  the  man  with  the  pick  and  gun, 

The  real  old  pioneer, 
Who  lived  on  greens  and  toothsome  beans, 

And  the  lordly  elk  and  deer ; 
[68] 


The  man  who  followed  the  Empire's  star 
On  its  onward  western  flight; 

Who  never  flagged  and  never  lagged, 
And  slept  with  his  gun  at  night. 

I  love  the  man  who  is  greater  far 

Than  the  ten-time  millionaire 
Whose  millions  are  the  fruits  of  war 

And  a  monument  of  despair ; 
Who  schemes  to  rob  his  f ellowmen, 

Legitimately  unjust, 
And  then  cahoots  with  his  chum  galoots 

To  form  an  ungodly  trust. 

I  love  the  man  who  strikes  it  rich 

After  toiling  many  years ; 
His  wealth  is  clean  as  a  sunny  beam 

And  unstained  by  blood  and  tears ; 
He  wrongs  no  man;  old  Mother  Earth 

Surrenders  to  her  kings 
Her  wealth  untold  of  precious  gold, 

And  God  and  Nature  sings. 

I  love  the  kings  of  Mother  Earth, 

Uncrowned  though  they  may  be; 
And  manly  men  in  gulch  and  glen 

Who  died  for  you  and  me, 
Are  wearing  brighter  laurels  now 

Than  all  the  titled  peers 
Of  wealth  and  state,  however  great, 

Whose  riches  came  with  tears. 


[69] 


TO  MRS.  KATE  BROWNLEE  SHERWOOD 

(Who  was  one  of  the  original  organizers  of  the  Woman's 
Relief  Corps,  Auxiliary  to  the  Grand  ^\rmy  of  the  Republic. 
Just  after  her  retirement  from  the  position  of  President  of 
the  W.  R.  C,  I  had  the  honor  to  recite  one  of  my  poems  in 
her  presence,  and  she  took  the  badge  of  office  from  her  own 
bosom  and  pinned  it  to  mine.  This  touching  circumstance 
called  forth  the  following)  : 

PERHAPS 

(TO   OUR   G.    A.   R.   GODDESS,   COMRADE   KATE  B.   SHERWOOD) 

Perhaps,  beloved  goddess,  you  never  will  know 
The  joy  and  the  pride  that  inflated  my  soul 
That  night  when  you  pinned  your  own  badge  on  my 

bosom — 

That  night  when  my  heart  wrote  its  name  on  your 
roll. 

Perhaps  it  was  weakness  that  made  my  eyes  glisten, 
While  looking  in  thine,  rather  misty,  I  ween, 

While  a  warrior's  soul  and  the  heart  of  a  woman 
Were  drifting  in  sight  of  our  comrade,  Pauline.* 

Perhaps,  after  all,  'mid  the  strife  and  commotion, 
The  worry  and  fretting  of  life's  busy  throng, 

The  soul  will  ride  over  the  tempest-tossed  ocean 
And  anchor  where  angels  and  sunshine  belong. 

Perhaps  in  God's  army  our  missing  will  gather, 

Unknown   will  be  known   when   they   answer  their 

names ; 

Not  one  be  unseen  by  the  all-seeing  Father, 
Though    sleeping    in    woodland,    in    mountain    and 
plains, 

[70] 


And  oh,  what  an  army  of  heroes  will  muster 
When  Gabriel's  trumpet  shall  call  to  review, 

And  near  to  the  throne  in  a  hallowed  cluster 

Will  stand  one  grand  army — the  Gray  and  the  Blue. 

Perhaps  the  great  chieftain  will  have  a  reunion, 
And  oh !  what  a  camp  fire  the  angels  would  see — 

Grant,  Jackson  and  Sherman,  and  Hancock  and  Gor- 
don, 
With  Buckner  and  Johnston  and  Logan  and  Lee. 

Perhaps  each  would  tell  of  the  heart's  honest  prompt- 
ings 
That  bade  them  take  arms  on  the  side  they  thought 

right, 
And  the  great  Chief  of  all  will  make  plain  why  He 

willed  it 
That  comrades  and  brothers  each  other  should  fight. 

Perhaps  He  will  point  to  the  emblem  of  freedom, 
As  out  o'er  the  dome  her  broad  stripes  are  unfurled, 

And  say  to  those  chieftains,  those  battle-scarred  heroes, 
"Your  work  made  that  banner  enlighten  the  world." 

And,  Kate,  if  the  Lord  will  detail  me  to  find  it, 
Your  crown  will  be  brighter  than  any  I  know; 

With  sunshine  in  front  ^nd  with  starlight  behind  it, 
I'm  sure  it  would  light  up  this  world  here  below. 

*Paul  Van  Deervoort,  Past  Commander-in-Chief  and  honor- 
ary member  of  the  Woman's  Relief  Corps. 


[71] 


EMBLEMATIC 

(Written  for  and  dedicated  to  the  Masonic  Fraternity  of 
the  World.  Suggested  by  Dr.  Walter  C.  Miller,  Augusta, 
Ga.,  1909.) 

The  coming  years  may  bring  to  you  success, 

The  victory  laurel  wreath  may  deck  your  brow, 
And  you  may  feel  Love's  hallowed  caress, 
And  have  withal  domestic  tenderness, 

And  fortune's  god  may  smile  on  you  as  now ; 
And  jewels  fit  for  eastern  potentate 
Hang  over  your  ambitious  heart,  and  Fate 
May  call  thee  "Prince  of  Men,"  or  "King  of  Hearts," 
While  Cupid  strives  to  pierce  you  with  his  darts, 
Nay,  even  more  than  these,  with  coming  light 
Your  feet  may  press  Fame's  loftiest  dazzling  height, 
And  looking  down  upon  the  world  below 
You  may  exclaim,  "I  cannot  greater  grow." 
But,  nevermore,  O  worthy  brother  mine, 
Can  innocence  and  purity  combine 
With  all  that's  sweet  and  tender  here  below, 
As  in  this  emblem  which  I  now  bestow. 

'Tis  yours  to  wear  throughout  a  life  of  love, 
And  when  your  spirit  wings  to  realms  above 
'Twill  with  your  cold  clay  rest  beneath  the  sod, 
While  breeze-kissed  flowers  whisper  of  your  God. 
O,  may  its  stainless,  spotless  surface  be 
An  emblem  of  that  perfect  purity 
Distinguished  far  above  all  else  on  earth 
And  sacred  as  the  virtue  of  the  hearth, 
And  when  at  last  your  naked  soul  shall  stand 
Before  the  throne  in  yon  great  temple  grand, 

[72] 


O,  may  it  be  your  portion  there  to  hear 

"Well  done,"  and  find  a  host  of  brothers  near 

To  join  the  angel  choir  in  glad  refrain 

Till  Northeast  corner  echoes  come  again, 

Then  while  the  hosts  in  silent  grandeur  stand, 

The  Supreme  Builder,  smiling,  in  command, 

Shall  say  to  you  to  whom  this  emblem's  given, 

"Welcome  art  thou  to  all  the  joys  of  Heaven." 

And  then  shall  dawn  within  your  'lightened  soul 

The  purposes  divine  that  held  control — 

The  full  fruition  of  the  Builder's  plan — 

The  Fatherhood  of  God — The  Brotherhood  of  Man. 


BURNS'  ANNIVERSARY 

IN  THE  HIELAN'S  o'  NEVADA  TO  THE  SONS  OF  CALEDONIA. 

Awa'  ye  brawny  sons  o'  Scotland, 

Up  the  banks  an'  doon  the  braes; 
Through  the  Hielan's  o'  Nevada, 

Sing  your  sangs  o'  ither  days. 
This  is  no  rich  Cowrie's  valley, 

Nor  the  Forth's  fair  sunny  side, 
Nor  the  grand  auld  rugged  mountain. 

Faither  o'  the  classic  Clyde. 

Yet  just  for  a  while  imagine' 

Ye  are  back  on  Scotia's  shore ; 
'Mang  the  grouse  on  hill  or  heather, 

Whaur  the  Hielan'  waters  roar. 

[73] 


Or  perhaps  in  glens  o'  brecken 
Whaur  the  Doon  an'  Afton  rin, 

Thinkin'  o'  your  Robby's  courtship, 
By  the  licht  o'  bonnie  minn. 

Noble,  brave,  unselfish  poet, 

Dinna  slicht  him  'mid  your  joys ; 
Fill  an'  drink  tae  him  a  bumper — 

He  was  Nature's  bard,  my  boys. 
First  o'  Scotland's  famous  freemen, 

Spurnin'  Lords  and  Monarch's  crown; 
Far  ower  honest  tae  be  schemin' — 

Bobby  Burns;  boys,  drink  her  down. 

Ride  ance  mair  wi'  Tarn  o'  Shanter 

'Till  the  wutches  arch  your  hair; 
Smile  at  Hornbrook's  vaunted  weesdom, 

Sigh  at  Holy  Willie's  prayer. 
Prie  the  he'rty,  sonsie  Haggis 

Ere  ye  rise  tae  gang  awa' — 
Let  the  Louse  an'  Mouse  thegither 

Teach  us  lessons  big  an'  braw. 

Up  in  Heaven  wi'  Hielan'  Mary 

Burns  noo  sings  a  sweeter  sang, 
Bootless  wearin'  brichter  laurels 

Than  the  men  wha  did  him  wrang. 
"Scots  wha  hae,"  methinks  I  hear  it — 

Hoo  sic  sparks  o'  genius  shine — 
At  your  picnic  drain  this  bumper, 

"Bobby  Burns  an'  Auld  Lang  Syne." 


[74] 


SAVIOR  OF  MY  SOUL 

I  am  hoping,  Savior,  hoping, 

While  for  strength  on  Thee  I  call; 
I  am  waiting,  Lord,  and  groping — 

Groping — lest  I  slip  and  fall. 
I  am  hungry  for  the  message, 

Let  it  reach  my  soul  today; 
Let  the  sunshine  of  Thy  glory 

Drive  these  clouds  of  doubts  away. 

O  Savior  of  my  soul,  I  do  adore  thee; 

Thy  precious  blood  will  cleanse  me  and  restore  me, 

I  have  wandered  far  away, 

But  I'm  nearer  Thee  today — 
O  Savior  of  my  soul,  Thou  wilt  restore  me. 

I  am  coming,  Savior,  coming, 

On  the  wings  of  Faith  I  fly ; 
In  my  soul  love's  music  thrumming, 

For  the  clouds  are  rolling  by. 
O,  the  sunshine,  love  and  laughter, 

Faith  has  made  me  whole  today, 
'Twill  be  joy  and  peace  hereafter, 

Since  all  doubts  have  passed  away. 

O  Savior  of  my  soul,  I  do  adore  thee; 
hy  precious  blood  was  given  to  restore  me; 

I  have  wandered  far  away, 

But  I'm  nearer  Thee  today — 
O  Savior  of  my  soul,  that  ruleth  o'er  me. 


[75] 


THE  MUSIC  OF  LIFE 

A  RECITATION   TO   BE    RECITED  TO   MUSIC 

Music — "London  Bridge  Is  Falling  Down" 
I. 

How  sweet,  how  fair  is  the  dawn  of  life, 
In  the  world  with  woe  and  folly  rife, 
To  hear  the  ring  of  childish  song, 

As  burden-heavy  we  trudge  along — 
And  backward,  through  the  vanished  years, 

In  childhood's  dreams  forget  Fate's  frown, 
Our  hearts  join  in  the  children's  play, 

When  "London  Bridge  Is  Falling  Down." 

II. 

Music — "Come,  My  Love,  the  Stars  Are  Shining."— 
"Old  Madrid." 

O'er  "London  Bridge" — how  short  the  span 
'Twixt  child  and  maid,  'twixt  boy  and  man ! 
The  tender  song  from  maiden  lips, 

Like  harp-strings  'neath  Love's  finger-tips 
Is  Love's  own  heaven-born  gift  of  song, 

As  its  wings  first  flutter  in  earthly  flame, 
Ere  its  tune  grows  false  and  its  rhythm  wrong, 

And  Man — not  Love — is  all  to  blame. 

III. 
Music— "Rock-a-Bye  Baby"  or  "Sleep,  Baby,  Sleep.3 

But  sweeter  far  in  the  noon  of  life, 
The  song  of  the  fairer,  happier  wife 
[76] 


As  she  croons  to  her  babe  a  lullabye 
That  ringeth  a  song  of  joy  on  high. 
She  finds  a  solace  for  every  care 

In  the  rich  reward  of  Motherhood; 
The  fervent  answer  to  every  pray'r ; 

The  vessel  that  holdeth  all  of  good. 


IV. 

Music— "Rock   of  Ages!' 

But  when  the  night  and  storm  comes  on, 
And  wife  and  mother  bows  alone, 
When  Fate  has  carried  all  away 
Who  filled  that  happier,  brighter  day; 
With  none  to  trust  and  all  to  fear, 

'Tis  then  her  faith  and  strength  we  see, 
As  through  the  storm  her  voice  rings  clear, 

"O,  Rock  of  Ages,  Cleft  for  Me." 

V. 

Music— "Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee" 

And  thus  with  calm,  unfurrowed  brow, 
To  where  the  deeper  waters  flow, 
Guided  by  unseen  hands  along, 
Turned  to  the  highest  praise  her  song — 
Fearless  of  rock,  of  hidden  reef, 

Up,  as  the  lark,  swift-winged,  will  flee, 
Her  song  will  rise,  through  joy,   through  grief, 
.    "Nearer,  Oh,  Nearer,  God,  to  Thee." 

[77] 


SERENADE  IN  THE  HILLS 

There  are  joybells  in  the  drilling 

While  I'm  shooting  through  the  hill. 
There  is  music  in  the  hammer 

As  it  bounces  from  the  drill ; 
And  at  every  stroke  I'm  thinking 

What  the  next  discharge  will  do; 
Will  it  bring  me  luck  and  fortune? 

Will  it  bring  me  back  to  you? 

CHORUS 
Love  grows  strong  in  the  mountains,  my  own, 

Hearts  in  the  wild  woods  are  true ; 
Men  grow  kind  and  tender,  dear  heart, 

And  my  heart  is  sighing  for  you. 
Wait  for  me,  dearest,  I  need  your  love, 

Your  trust  you  never  shall  rue. 
A  prayer  and  a  tear,  for  your  absent  one,  dear, 

To  bring  me  to  mother  and  you. 

When  I  hear  the  night-birds  singing, 

Near  my  little  mountain  home, 
When  the  stars  are  all  a-twinkle 

In  the  blue  of  Heaven's  dome, 
When  the  evening  tasks  are  over 

And  there's  no  more  work  to  do, 
Then  I  find  my  soul  is  singing 

Tender  serenades  to  you. 

CHORUS 

Love  grows  stronger  in  the  mountains,  my  own, 
Hearts  in  the  wild  woods  are  true; 
[78] 


Men  grow  kind  and  tender,  dear  heart, 

And  my  heart  is  sighing  for  you. 
Wait  for  me,  dearest,  I  need  your  love, 

Your  trust  you  never  shall  rue. 
A  prayer  and  a  tear,  for  your  absent  one,  dear, 

To  bring  me  to  mother  and  you. 


NOW  I  LAY  ME  DOWN  TO  SLEEP 

(Written  while  alone  in  the  San  Mateo  Mountains,  New 
Mexico,  and  while  Chief  of  Scouts  under  General  Edward 
Hatch,  on  the  trail  of  Victorio,  the  Apache  chief,  and  his  mur- 
derous band.) 

Near  the  camp-fire's  flickering  light 

In  my  blanket  bed  I  lie, 
Gazing  through  the  shades  of  night 

At  the  twinkling  stars  on  high; 
O'er  me  spirits  in  the  air 

Silent  vigils  seem  to  keep 
As  I  breathe  my  childhood's  prayer, 

"Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

Sadly  sings  the  whippoorwill 

In  the  boughs  of  yonder  tree; 
Laughingly  the  dancing  rill 

Swells  the  midnight  melody. 
Foemen  may  be  lurking  near 

In  the  valley  dark  and  deep ; 
Low  I  breathe  in  Jesus'  ear: 

"I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  keep." 

'Mid  those  stars  one  face  I  see — 
One  the  Savior  called  away — 
[79] 


Mother,  who  in  infancy 

Taught  my  baby  lips  to  pray ; 

Her  sweet  spirit  hovers  near 
In  this  lonely  mountain  brake. 

"Take  me  to  her,  Savior  dear, 
If  I  should  die  before  I  wake." 

Fainter  grows  the  flickering  light 

As  each  ember  slowly  dies; 
Plaintively  the  birds  of  night 

Fill  the  air  with  saddening  cries ; 
Over  me  they  seem  to  cry: 

"You  may  never  more  awake." 
Low  I  lisp:  "If  I  should  die, 

I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  take." 

Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep ; 

I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep. 
If  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 

I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  my  soul  to  take. 


NORA  LEE 

A  SONG 

I  have  watched  the  roses  blooming, 

Know  the  violet's  lovely  hue, 
And  daisies  like  the  starlight, 

As  they  sparkle  with  the  dew ; 
I  have  looked  upon  the  lilies 

And  the  flowers  of  every  tree, 
But  none  are  half  so  pretty 

As  my  blue-eyed  Nora  Lee. 
[80] 


CHORUS 

She  is  sweeter  than  the  violets, 

She  is  fairer  than  the  rose ; 
Her  eyes  are  soft  and  tender, 

And  her  cheek  with  beauty  glows. 
Oh,  I  never  can  forget  her, 

Though  she  never  thinks  of  me ; 
I  love  that  blue-eyed  beauty — 

Little  darling,  Nora  Lee. 

To  my  prairie  home  I'm  going, 

With  my  comrades  brave  and  free, 
And  yet  where'er  I  wander 

Those  blue  eyes  will  follow  me. 
I  shall  see  them  in  the  camp-fire, 

They  will  sparkle  in  the  dell, 
And  in  the  rippling  streamlets 

I  shall  hear  that  last  farewell. 


CHORUS 

She  is  sweeter  than  the  violets, 

She  is  fairer  than  the  rose ; 
Her  eyes  are  soft  and  tender, 

And  her  cheek  with  beauty  glows. 
"God  bless  you,  Jack,  God  bless  you !" 

Were  the  words  she  whispered  low; 
I  thought  'twas  heavenly  music 

From  her  throat  as  white  as  snow. 


[81] 


FAITH 

A  HYMN 

TO  MRS.  MC  KINLEY,  IN  MEMORIAM 
Copyright,    1907. 

I  am  standing  on  the  border 

Of  the  bright  Celestial  land, 
And  I  see  the  heavenly  sunlight 

Dancing  on  the  golden  strand; 
There  I'll  meet  the  blessed  Saviour 

And  will  take  His  guiding  hand — 
I  shall  camp  with  Him  in  glory  in  the  morning. 

REFRAIN 

In  the  morning,  in  the  morning, 

With  the  halo  of  His  love  my  soul  adorning ; 

I  am  clinging  to  His  hand, 

I  shall  know  and  understand, 
When  I  meet  my  blessed  Saviour  in  the  morning. 

I  am  waiting  for  the  summons 

That  shall  call  me  to  my  own, 
I  am  nearer  to  my  Saviour, 

And  my  faith  has  stronger  grown; 
I  can  see  my  loved  companions 

And  my  dear  ones  near  the  throne — 
I  am  coming,  blessed  Saviour,  in  the  morning. 

O!  the  glory  of  possession 

Of  the  simple  faith  that  clings 
To  the  sheltering  Rock  of  Ages, 

And  the  peace  of  love  it  brings 
[82] 


Is  the  crowning  song  eternal 

That  my  soul  in  rapture  sings — 
I  shall  see  my  loved  Redeemer  in  the  morning. 


RESIGNED 

Ah'm  a-croonin'  to  de  baby 

Jes'  a  little  ebenin'  song; 
Ah'm  a-rockin'  ob  de  cradle, 

Kase  his  mammy  isn't  strong ; 
Fo'  she's  been  a-workin'  steady, 

She's  mah  honey,  good  and  kind, 
An'  Ah  kain't  do  much  to  help  her 

Or  de  baby,  fo'  Ah'm  blind. 

CHORUS 

But  Ah'm  hopin'  and  Ah'm  gropin* 
An'  Ah'm  singin'  all  de  while, 

An'  it  sort  o'  cheers  mah  honey 
When  she  sees  me  wid  a  smile. 

Ah'm  a-whistlin'  to  de  baby 

As  Ah  hoi'  his  little  han', 
An'  Ah  pray  de  Lord  to  watch  him 

Till  he  gits  to  be  a  man. 
An'  when  clouds  a-hover  over 

An'  de  win's  a-howlin'  strong, 
Ah  rock-a-bye  ma  baby. 

An'  Ah  sing  ma  little  song. 

CHORUS 
[83] 


THE  KEYSTONE  OF  THE  UNION 

PENNSYLVANIA 

O  Sov'reign  State,  thy  name  we  hail, 

Our  hearts  aglow  with  patriot  pride, 
Thy  praises  ring  in  ev'ry  vale, 

From  ev'ry  lofty  mountain  side. 
We  love  thy  rocks,  we  love  thy  rills, 

Thy  fruitful  fields  and  rivers  broad, 
We  love  thy  old  historic  hills, 

Whose  winding  paths  our  fathers  trod. 

CHORUS 

O  Mighty  State;  O  Sov'reign  State, 
Thou  bulwark  of  our  land  so  great, 
To  thee  our  love  we  consecrate, 
O  Keystone  of  the  Union. 

Deep  in  each  mountain's  wounded  side, 

Hid  from  the  sun's  enliv'ning  beams, 
In  gloomy  caverns  dark  and  wide, 

The  lamp  of  toiling  miner  gleams. 
A  million  hearts  their  labors  cheer, 

Their  product  spreads  o'er  land  and  sea, 
It  gladdens  homes  in  ev'ry  sphere, 

And  drives  the  wheels  of  Industry. 

CHORUS 

O  Mighty  State;  O  Sov'reign  State, 

Thou  bulwark  of  our  land  so  great, 

To  thee  our  love  we  consecrate, 

O  Keystone  of  the  Union. 

[84] 


When  war's  alarm  swept  o'er  the  land, 

And  treason's  hand  on  Sumpter  fell, 
Thy  loyal  sons  with  valor  grand 

Upheld  the  cause  they  loved  so  well. 
On  many  a  field  with  crimson  stained, ' 

And  on  the  ever  restless  sea, 
Thy  honor  well  their  arms  maintained, 

Thy  flag  they  bore  to  victory. 

CHORUS 

O  Mighty  State;  O  Sov'reign  State, 
Thou  bulwark  of  our  land  so  great, 
To  thee  our  love  we  consecrate, 
O  Keystone  of  the  Union. 

We  honor  those  who  fought  and  bled 

When  duty  called  our  warrior  braves; 
We  bless  the  mem'ry  of  the  dead, 

Now  sleeping  in  their  honored  graves. 
Should  e'er  again  the  trumpet  sound, 

And  guns  in  angry  discord  roar, 
Thy  loyal  sons  would  rally  round 

The  flag  their  sires  so  nobly  bore. 

CHORUS 

O  Mighty  State;  O  Sov'reign  State, 
Thou  bulwark  of  our  land  so  great, 
To  thee  our  love  we  consecrate, 
O  Keystone  of  the  Union. 


[85] 


MY  LITTLE  NEW  LOG  CABIN  IN  THE  HILLS 

A   PARODY 

(Written  at  Custer  City,  in  the  Black  Hills,  in  the  spring  of 
1876,  for  Dick  Brown,  the  banjo  player,  and  sung  by  Dick 
and  I,  the  miners  joining  in  the  chorus,  in  the  camp  and  in 
the  cabin.) 

In  my  little  new  log  cabin  home  my  heart  is  light  and 

free, 

While  the  boys  around  me  gather  every  day, 
And  the  sweetest  hours  I  ever  knew  are  those  I'm  pass- 
ing now, 
While  the  banjo  makes  sweet  music  to  my  lay. 

CHORUS 
The  scenes  are  changing  every  day,  the  snow  is  nearly 

gone, 

And  there's  music  in  the  laughter  of  the  rills ; 
But  the  dearest  spot  of  all  I  know  is  where  I  love  to 

dwell, 
In  my  little  new  log  cabin  in  the  hills. 

While  the  birds  are  sweetly  singing  to  the  coming  of  the 

spring, 

And  the  flow'rets  peep  their  heads  out  from  the  sod, 
We  feel  as  gay  and  happy  as  the  songsters  on  the  wing 
Who  are  sending  up  sweet  anthems  to  their  God. 

CHORUS 
Then  let  us  work  with  heart  and  hand  and  help  each 

other  through 

In  this  pretty  little  world  we  call  our  own, 
Whether  building  or  prospecting — yes,  or  lighting  with 

the  Sioux, 

For  'tis  hard  sometimes  to  play  your  hand  alone. 
CHORUS 
[86] 


THE  IRISH  LOVER 

I  left  a  little  colleen  in  the  isle  beyond  the  sea — 
A  pretty  blue-eyed  maiden,  who  is  all  in  all  to  me; 
She  said  ere  I  took  shippin'   for  far  across  the  sea: 
"Oh,  don't  forget  your  other  heart  is  waitin'." 

CHORUS 
Sure  you're  a  part  o'  me,  Rosie,  sweatheart  o'  me, 

Rosie  the  pride  o'  me,  bride  o'  me  heart ; 
I  will  be  true  for  you,  what  won't  I  do  for  you, 

Never,  oh,  never  again  shall  we  part. 

Her  letter  I've  been  readin'  an'  it's  blurred  across  with 

tears. 
"Sure,  Denny  dear,  it  seems  as  if  you're  gone  a  dozen 

years. 

But  don't  ye  be  uneasy,  for  I  haven't  any  fears ; 
You  won't  forget  your  other  heart  is  waitin'." 

CHORUS 
Sure  you're  a  part  o'  me,  Rosie,  sweetheart  o'  me, 

Rosie  the  pride  o'  me,  bride  o'  me  heart. 
I  will  be  true  for  you,  what  won't  I  do  for  you, 

Never,  oh,  never  again  will  we  part. 

The   ship   will   soon  be   sailin'   an'   I'm   coming  back 

asthore, 
I'm  coming  wid'  yer  passage  an'  I've  got  a  good  dale 

more; 
I've  got  a  pretty  cottage,  an'  there's  room  enough  for 

four, 
So  darlin',  I  won't  keep  ye  longer  waitin'. 

CHORUS 
[87] 


THE  HEAVENLY  TELEPHONE 

When  baby  Bess  knelt  at  my  knee  to  say  her  evening 

prayer, 

She  cutely  asked  me  if  it  went  by  telephone  up  there. 
And  wondered   why  the   Master  didn't  answer  right 

away, 

Just  as  her  papa  answered  from  the  office  every  day. 
Next  morn  I  found  her  at  the  'phone,  tiptoeing  on  a 

chair 
And  crying,  "Hello,  Central,"  and  with  such  a  roguish 

air 
She  said,  "Now,  mamma,  go  away;  this  talk  is  all  my 

own. 
I  want  to  ask  Dod  if  he  hears  the  pray'rs  I  telephone." 

In  one  short  week  our  baby  lay  upon  her  dying  bed, 
And  ev'ry  heart  seemed  breaking,  as  in  feeble  tones  she 

said, 

"I'm  going  up  to  Heaven,  where  the  little  angels  play, 
And  I  will  be  an  angel,  too,  if  I  can  find  the  way; 
But,  mamma  dear,  I'm  'fraid  I'll  be  so  lonesome  when 

I  go, 
Because  I  ain't  acquainted  with  a  soul  up  there,  you 

know; 
But  if  you'll  kneel  down  by  my  bed,  I'll  try  real  hard 

to  wait 
Until  you  telephone  to  God  to  meet  me  at  the  gate." 

The  baby's  wished-for  message  from  a  bleeding  heart 

was  sent, 
And  then  her  spotless  spirit  to  the  heavenly  mansion 

went. 

[83] 


There  at  the  pearly  gates  I  know  the  loving  Master 

stood 
To  welcome  her  with  gentle  smile  as  she  so  hoped  He 

would. 

Her  prattling  voice  forever  will  be  ling' ring  in  my  ear, 
And  when  I  miss  her  toddling  step  and  all  seems  dark 

and  drear, 
I  seek  the  quiet  churchyard,  where  we  laid  her  'neath 

the  sod, 
And  kneeling  by  her  little  grave,  I  "telephone"  to  God. 


COME  BACK,  PAPA 

My  heart  was  bowed  down  in  sadness, 

My  soul  was  all  dark  with  despair, 
When  a  voice  with  a  ripple  of  gladness 

Came  floating  to  me  through  the  air — 
The  voice  of  a  little  one  ringing 

Like  joybells  from  over  the  lea, 
And  this  is  the  song  she  was  singing : 

"Oh,  come  back,  dear  papa,  to  me!" 

CHORUS 

"Conic  back  to  me,  oh,  come  back  to  me ; 
Mamma  and  Dolly  are  watching  for  thee. 
Come  back,  dear  papa,  from  over  the  sea ; 
Mamma  and  baby  are  waiting  for  thee." 

My  arms  were  soon  folded  around  her, 
She  snuggled  close  up  to  my  breast; 

I  blest  the  dear  spot  where  I  found  her, 
And  carried  her  into  our  nest. 
[89] 


And  while  'round  my  neck  she  was  clinging, 
The  sunburst  of  love  seemed  to  be 

Aflame  in  the  soul  that  was  singing, 
"Oh,  come  back,  dear  papa,  to  me." 


CHORUS 


A  CURE  FOR  INSOMNIA 

There's  a  song  that  I  sing  when  my  soul  is  aglow 

With  the  rapture  of  love  undefiled; 
When  the  wealth  of  the  world  I  would  gladly  bestow 

For  the  innocent  laugh  of  a  child. 
When  alone  in  the  mountain  a  bright,  shining  star 

From  God's  jeweled  crown  seems  to  peep, 
While  someone  is  holding  the  gateway  ajar, 

I  sing,  " Mother,  rock  me  to  sleep." 

CHORUS 

Rock  me  to  sleep,  let  me  dream  of  my  childhood, 
Back  to  the  mountains  and   fountains  and  wildwood. 
Dear  mother  in  heaven,  thy  sweet  song  repeat 
And  rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 

There's  a  song  that  I  sing  when  my  soul  is  in  tune 

With  the  birds  and  the  flowers  and  the  bees, 
And  green  buds  are  sprouting  and  blossoms  of  June 

Are  lading  with  perfume  the  breeze. 
At  night,  when  unbidden,  my  troubles  appear 

And  sometimes  I  nervously  leap, 
I  just  keep  repeating,  "Dear  mother  is  near," 

And  then  I  sing,  "Rock  me  to  sleep." 

CHORUS 
[90] 


THE  OPTIMISTIC  WARBLER 

Sing  a  cheerful  song,  or  whistle 

If  you  don't  know  how  to  sing, 
And  remember  that  the  thistle 

Beats  the  daisies  in  the  Spring ; 
That  the  gloomy  clouds  of  sorrow 

Which  o'erhang  your  sky  today 
Will  unfold  a  bright  tomorrow 

When  the  clouds  have  passed  away. 

CHORUS 

I'm  an  optimistic  warbler 

And  I  whistle,  laugh  and  sing, 
Bringing  gladness  out  of  sadness 

With  the  sunshine  that  I  fling. 
While  a  heap  of  satisfaction 

Snuggles  underneath  my  vest, 
As  I  laugh  and  sing  and  whistle 

Ere  I  lay  me  down  to  rest. 

Oh,  I  wish  that  I  could  muster 

On  the  heights  of  Nature's  crest, 
A  great  army  that  would  trust  her 

With  its  happiness  and  rest. 
She  would  soothe  their  every  sorrow, 

And  with  chiming  joybells  bring 
Floods  of  sunshine  on  the  morrow 

If  they'd  whistle,  laugh  and  sing. 

CHORUS 
[91] 


IN  DONEGAL 

Oh,  would  that  I  again  a  boy  could  be, 
Roaming  barefooted  by  the  Irish  Sea; 

My  world's  so  small, 

Watching  the  flocks  that  grazed  upon  the  shore, 
Wrapped  in  the  cast-off  coat  my  father  wore, 

In  Donegal. 

I  see  myself,  bareheaded  in  the  breeze, 
Wading  the  shoals,  salt  water  to  my  knees. 

The  seagulls  call 

In  wake  of  passing  ships  that  greeted  me, 
En  route  to  God's  sweet  land  of  liberty, 

From  Donegal. 

Then  comes  a  dear,  loved  vision  on  the  strand- 
A  blue-eyed  Irish  lass  who  took  my  hand 

In  hers  so  small, 

And  said  to  me,  in  accents  sweet  and  low, 
''You'll  ne'er  forget  the  girl  that  loved  you  so, 

In  Donegal." 

Oh,  sweet  and  holy  love  of  ten  years  old, 
Mary  of  Donegal  with  hair  of  gold,    • 

With  rippling  fall. 

"Good  bye,  God  bless  you,  little  playmate,  Jack. 
You  won't  forget — some  day  you  will  come  back 

To  Donegal." 

Years  passed — again  I  found  me  on  the  strand, 
And  I  was  just  a  boy  once  more — unmanned, 
Bare  feet  and  all; 
[92] 


I  sighed  for  Mary  as  in  days  of  yore, 
But  whispering  waves  made  answer,  "Never- 
more!" 

In  Donegal. 


HEARD  IN  THE  CANE-BRAKE 

Fo'  de  Lord,  I's  gwine  ter  hustle, 

I's  a  pullin'  fo'  de  shore, 
Whar'  de  bridegroom  am  a-waitin' 

Fo'  to  tote  de  shif'less  o'er; 
Whar'  de  weary  am  a-restin', 

An'  dar's  sorrow  never  more 
On  de  othah  side  ob  Jordan  in  de  mawnin'. 

Oh,  dar  ain't  no  automobiles 

In  de  Hallelujah  Lan', 
Whar'  Jehovah's  golden  chariot 

Am  a-rollin'  f  rough  de  san' ; 
Whar  de  blessed  Lawd  am  waitin' 

Fo'  to  take  yo'  by  de  han', 
On  de  othah  side  ob  Jordan  in  de  mawnin'. 

Hallelujah !  fo'  de  streets  ob  gold, 

Whar'  night  am  lak'  de  day, 
Hallelujah!  fo'  dem  golden  harps 

On  which  dem  angels  play, 
Hallelujah!  fo'  de  Lam'  ob  God 

Dat  wash  ma  sins  away, 
On  de  othah  side  ob  Jordan  in  de  mawnin'. 
[93J 


THIRTY  YEARS  AGO 

Come,  mother,  put  your  knittin'  down;  you've  done 

enough  to-night; 

It  isn't  good  for  them  old  eyes  to  work  by  candlelight. 
They  ain't  as  flashy  as  they  was  some  thirty  years  ago, 
When  at  the  old  red  meetin'  house  I  first  became  your 

beau. 

The  big  pertracted  meetin'  was  a  runnin'  at  the  time, 
An'   Preacher   Giles's    sermons   jist   a   makin'    sinners 

climb ; 
The  mourners'  benches  wouldn't  hold  the  crowds  that 

forward  went 
To  seek  salvation  from  the  Lord  and  o'er  their  sins 

lament. 

Up  in  the  "amen  corner"  you  would  always  take  your 

seat, 

An'  jine  in  with  the  singin'  in  a  voice  so  master  sweet 
That  of'entimes  I've  shet  my  eyes  an'  half  imagined 

you 

War  act'ally  an  angel  sent  to  help  the  meetin'  through. 
I  vum,  but  how  "Amazin'  Grace"  a-rollin'  from  your 

lips 
Would  make  me  feel  like  I  war'  witched,  c'lar  to  my 

finger-tips. 
An'  "Sinner  Turn,  Why  Will  Ye  Die,"  you  sung  so 

feelin'ly, 
I  swow  it  made  me  think  you  sung  especially  at  me. 

I  reckon  for  a  dozen  nights  I  sot  back  near  the  door, 
An'  when  the  benediction  come,  I'd  sweat  from  every 

pore 

[94] 


Because  I  had  determined  for  to  offer  you  my  arm, 
Alt'  ax  if  I  might  see  you  home,  acrost  your  father's 

farm; 
But  when  I'd  take  my  place  in  line  outside  the  little 

church, 
An'  seed  you  comin'  through  the  door,  my  heart'd  give 

a  lurch, 
An'  thar'  I'd  stand  dumb  as  a  fool,  an'  swaller  at  the 

chokes, 
Till  you  war  half  way  down  the  lane  along  with  all 

your  folks. 

I  swan  to  goodness,  mother,  if  it  doesn't  make  me 
laugh 

To  think  o'  me  a  standin'  thar',  a  great  big  bashful  calf, 

Without  a  spark  o'  courage  fur  to  make  a  move,  al- 
though 

I  didn't  think  you'd  sack  me,  fur  you  had  no  other  beau. 

But  one  night  I  remember,  I  war'  sittin'  in  the  rear, 

When  Cyrus  Hawkins  nudged  my  arm,  an'  whispered 
in  my  ear, 

"Jist  watch  me  w'en  the  meetin's  out  an'  you  will  see 
a  sight — 

I'm  goin'  to  ax  Jane  Hall  if  I  can  beau  her  home  to- 
night." 

Jemina  crickets  !  but  them  words  just  cut  me  like  a  dart, 
An'  it  war'  all  that  I  could  do  to  swaller  down  by  heart, 
An'  then  an  'there  I  silent  vowed  that  I  would  be  a 

lout 

To  let  that  slouchy,  freckled  fool  step  in  an'  cut  me  out. 
So  w'en  the  old  doxology  war'  bein'  sung,  I  crep' 
Outside  ahead  of  all  the  rest  an*  stood  upon  the  step, 

[95] 


An*  w'en  I  staggered  up  to  you,  a  wobblin'  at  the  knees, 
You  tuk  my  arm  an'  off  we  went  as  cosy  as  you  please. 

Do  you  remember,  mother,  how  I  never  spoke  a  word 
Till  we  war'  nearly  half  way  home?     I  swow  it  was 

absurd — 

But  then  I'd  never  had  a  gal  hitched  to  me  that-a-way, 
An'  I'll  be  blest  if  I  could  think  of  anything  to  say. 
'T  war'  you  as  broke  the  solitude,  an'  tried  to  start  the 

talk, 

Observin'  't  war'  a  lovely  night,  an'  splendid  fur  a  walk, 
An'  if  my  memory  sarves  me  right  my  'tarnal  bashful- 
ness 

Condensed  my  answer  to  a  sort  o'   whispered,  half- 
skeered  "Yes." 

Well,  mother,  'twas  a  funny  start,  but  bless  the  Lord 

above, 

It  ended  in  a  double  case  of  unresistful  love — 
When  we  got  acquainted  more  I  guess  I  talked  as  good 
As  any  love-sick  country  boy  in  our  hull  neighborhood. 
An'  arter  the  revival  broke  I  didn't  stand  no  more 
An'  wait  fur  you,  proud  as  a  king,  outside  the  church's 

door; 
But  then  that  didn't  break  us  off,  not  by  a  plaguey 

sight, 
Because  I  went  a  courtin'  you  most  every  Sunday  night. 

An'  mother,  do  you  mind  that    blessed    day  in  early 

Spring, 
When   bees   begun   to   hum   around   an'   birds   begun 

to  sing? 

[96] 


I  found  you  in  the  pastur'  lot  a  milkin',  an'  I  told 
The  story  of  the  burnin'  love  that  in  my  bosom  rolled. 
Jee-whiz!  but  how  the  milk  did  fly;  you  squeezed  so 

'tarnal  hard 
The  heifer  kicked  the  bucket  nearly  half  acrost  the 

yard! 
An'  w'en  I  fetched  it  back  again  an'  tuk  you  by  the 

hand, 
Your  look  made  me  the  happiest  man  in  all  this  Yankee 

land. 

Fur  thirty  years  we've  jogged  along  the  rugged  road 

o'  life, 

An'  mother,  you  have  bin  to  me  a  true  an'  noble  wife — 
Our  old  revival  meetin'  love  hain't  flickered  out  a  bit, 
An'  though  we're  gittin'  old  an'  gray,  we're  them  same 

lovers  yit. 
Your  kisses  now  are  just  as  sweet,  an'  full  o'  heavenly 

dew 
As  them  you  give  me  at  the  gate  when  I  was  courtin' 

you; 
An'  we  will  still  be  lovers   w'en  I  clasp  you  to  my 

breast, 
"Whar'  the  wicked  cease  from  troublin',  an'  the  weary 

are  at  rest.'* 


[97] 


DOT  LITTLE  CRIPPLED  BOY  VOT  DIED 

(An  old  German  cobbler  in  the  coal  fields  grieving  over  the 
death  of  a  little  orphan  cripple  boy  to  whom  he  became  greatly 
attached.) 

I  don'd  vas  feeling  good  von  bit, 

A  great  big  lump  vas  in  my  neck, 
Und  ven  I  try  to  svaller  it 

It  yust  seems  like  my  heart  vould  break ; 
Sometimes  my  eyes  vas  like  a  spoud 

Mit  tears  I  somehow  don'd  could  hide, 
Und  I  yust  sit  and  fret  aboud 

Dot  little  cripple  boy  vot  died. 

He  used  to  come  my  shoe-shop  in 

Und  vatch  me  ven  I  drive  dem  pegs. 
Und  it  yust  make  my  heart  ache  ven 

I  see  dem  little  crippled  legs. 
But  he  vas  always  schmiling  mit 

Dem  big  blue  eyes  so  open  vide, 
Und  nefer  mind  dot  pain  one  bit, 

Dot  little  cripple  boy  vot  died. 

I  tol*  him  Deutschland  stories,  und 

He  laugh  yust  like  dem  angel  dings, 
Vot  mit  der  picture  books  go  'round 

Up  yonder  mit  der  schnow  vite  vings; 
Und  now  my  eyes  vas  all  in  schwim 

Mit  tear-drops  dot  I  don'd  could  hide, 
Because  I  got  some  love  mit  him, 

Dot  little  cripple  boy  vot  died. 

Some  day  he  don'd  vould  come,  und  den 
I  feel  oil  ofer  black  mit  blue, 
[98] 


Und  sighs  vould  shake  my  bosom  ven 

I  tried  to  cobble  mit  a  shoe. 
Den  I  vould  go  out  by  my  door 

Und  look  about  mit  efery  side, 
My  old  heart  yust  was  aching  for 

Dot  little  cripple  boy  vot  died. 

Vun  time  he  don'd  vas  come  for  more 

As  most  a  veek — I  don'd  know  vy — 
Und  vun  day  standing  in  de  door 

I  see  some  funerals  go  by. 
I  ask  von  little  bootblack  who 

In  dot  vite  hearse  vas  took  a  ride; 
Und  he  say,  "Dutchy,  don'd  you  know 

Dot  little  cripple  boy  vas  died?" 

I  feel  yust  like  my  heart  vas  sick, 

Und  nefer  vant  to  beat  some  more. 
I  close  my  shop  up  pooty  quick, 

Und  hang  some  black  stuff  on  der  door 
Und  den  I  t'ink,  "Some  day  I  go 

Mit  angels  by  dot  oder  side, 
Und  how  den  vas  I  going  to  know 

Dot  little  cripple  boy  vot  died?" 

Dose  little  legs  vill  be  all  straight 

In  dot  bright  land  so  far  avay, 
Und  ven  I  go  in  by  der  gate, 

Vere  all  der  little  angels  blay, 
I  vonder  if  I  find  him  out. 

Maybe  he  run  avay  und  hide; 
Veil,  I  don'd  t'ink  I  shtay  mitoud 

Dot  little  cripple  boy  vot  died. 
[99] 


THE  OLD  KENTUCKY  RIFLE 

I  am  crowdin'  close  to  eighty,  gittin'  mighty  near  the 

end, 
My  hair  is  white  and  scattered,  an'  my  back  has  got 

a  bend. 

I  am  shaky  on  my  trotters,  an'  my  eyes  has  got  so  dim 
I  kin  scarcely  see  yon  mountain  that  so  of'en  I  have 

clim. 
I've  gathered  up  some  treasures  that  I  value  mighty 

high, 
An'  thar's  one  which  all  the  money  of  the  earth  could 

never  buy. 
Among  my  goods  and  chattels  here  I  prize  it  more  then 

all, 
That  ol1  Kentucky  rifle  hangin'  thar'  ag'in  the  wall. 

Its  stock  is  scarred  an'  battered,  an'  its  bar'l  is  full  o' 

nicks, 
Its  lock  is  worn  with  sarvice  till  I   scarce  kin  hear 

its  clicks. 
It's  lost  its  shinin'   beauty  that  it  had   when   I  was 

young, 
But  when  it  speaks  it  hasn't  lost  the  sharpness  of  its 

tongue. 
It  was  my  lone  companion  when  this  country  was  a 

wild, 

I  love  it  dear  as  father  ever  loved  a  favored  child. 
An'  I've  seed  some  skeery  moments  when  to  me  'twas 

all  in  all, 

That  ol'  Kentucky  rifle  hangin'  thar'  ag'in  the  wall. 

[100] 


Lots  o'  deer  has  fell  before  it ;  yes,  an'  many  a  panther, 

too, 
In    early    days    some    injuns    knowed    about    what    it 

could  do. 
An'  a  squir'l's  eye  peepin'  at  me  from  the  very  tallest 

tree, 
I  could  bu'st  all  into  bits  an'  bring  the  critter  down 

to  me. 
An'  the  Chris'mas  shootin'  matches,  master  mine!  but 

wan'n't  they  fun? 
An'  I  reckon  I  surprised  'em  with  the  shootin'  that  I 

done. 
Ev'ry  turkey  that  I  drawed  on  caught  the  vengeance 

of  a  ball 
From  that  ol'  Kentucky  rifle  hangin'  thar'  ag'in  the  wall. 

I  have  seed  the  new  inventions  they  are  makin'  now- 

a-days,, 

An'  I  own  they're  mighty  slick  in  a  variety  o'  ways; 
They  are  han'some  fur  to  look  at,  you  kin  load  'em 

with  a  snap, 
An'  you  never  have  to  bother  with  a  flint-lock  or  a 

cap; 
You  kin  shoot  'em  mighty  lively  when  you  bring  'em 

to  the  scratch, 
Never  have  to  ram  yer  bullets,  never  have  to  cut  a 

patch. 
But  fur  close  and  hair-breadth  shootin'   I  could  one 

day  down  'em  all 
With  that  ol'  Kentucky  rifle  hangin'  thar'  ag'in  the  wall. 


[101] 


Thar's  one  thing  makes  me  love   it  as   I  never  did 

afore — 
When  I  heard  the  ringin'  summons  callin'  loyal  men 

to  war. 
All  the  fire  that  nerved  my  daddy  in  the  Revolution 

days 

Got  a  surgin'  in  my  bosom  till  my  heart  was  all  ablaze. 
Then  I  shouldered  that  ol'  rifle,  filled  my  bullet-pouch 

with  lead, 
Put  that  ol'  warm  cap  o'  coonskin  sort  o'  keerless  on 

my  head, 
An'  I  offers  them  the  sarvice  of  a  mighty  keen-eyed 

man 
For    to    do    some    fancy    shootin'    under   glorious    ol* 

Berdan. 

Through  the  bloody  war  I  packed  her,  and  I  brought 

her  home  ag'in 

Proud  an'  sassy  o'  the  record  that  I  tuk  her  in  to  win ; 
An'  when  age  was  creepin'  on  me  an'  I  couldn't  shoot 

no  more, 
With  my  shaky  hands  I  hung  her  up  to  rest  behind 

the  door. 
When  this  ol'  an*  worn-out  body  underneath  the  ground 

they  hide, 

I  have  asked  'em  fur  to  lay  it  sort  o'  loving  by  my  side, 
An'  when  Gabriel  blows  his  trumpet  I'll  march  up'ard 

at  the  call, 
Hangin'  on  to  that  ol'  rifle  over  thar'  ag'in  the  wall. 


[102] 


WHO  THE  HEROES  WERE 

You  "never  was  scared  in  battle"?    Here, 

Old  comrade,  don't  make  a  break  like  that! 
The  man  never  lived  who  was  free  from  fear 

When  the  vicious  bullets  began  to  spat, 
And  the  cannons  belched  from  their  iron  throats 

The  deafening  notes  of  the  song  of  war — 
The  frightful,  terrible,  thundering  notes 

That  caused  the  eternal  earth  to  jar. 

I've  heard  men  say  they  were  just  as  cool 

In  the  heat  of  the  battle  as  they  would  be 
In  a  quiet  seat  in  a  Sabbath  school, 

But  they  couldn't  find  a  believer  in  me. 
I  never  flinched,  never  shirked  a  call, 

But  several  times  in  the  war-swept  South 
If  I'd  been  shot  through  the  heart,  the  ball 

Would  have  had  to  hit  me  square  in  the  mouth. 

It's  the  silliest  sort  of  talk  we  hear — 

And  hear  from  soldiers  of  solid  worth — 
That  they  stood  in  the  front  and  felt  no  fear 

When  the  rumblings  of  battle  convulsed  the  earth. 
I  hold  that  our  bravest  men  were  those 

Who  felt  alarm  at  the  cannon's  roar, 
Yet  never  rearward  pointed  their  toes, 

But  stood  like  men  till  the  battle  was  o'er. 


[103] 


BRONCHO  vs.  BICYCLE 

• 

(Written  by  request  of  Colonel  Albert  A.  Pope,  and  read 
at  the  Bicycle  Club  Dinner,  Boston,  giyen  in  honor  of  Mr. 
Tom  Stevens,  the  famous  bicyclist,  who  had  just  returned 
from  a  tour  of  the  world  on  his  wheel.) 

The  first  we  saw  of  the  high-tone  tramp 
War'  over  thar'  at  our  Pecos  camp; 
He  war'  comin'  down  the  Santa  Fe  trail, 
Astride  of  a  wheel  with  a  crooked  tail, 
A-skinnin'  along  with  a  merry  song, 
An'  ringin'  a  little  warnin'  gong. 
He  looked  so  outlandish,  strange  and  queer 
That  all  of  us  grinned  from  ear  to  ear, 
An'  every  boy  on  the  round-up  swore 
He  had  never  seed  sich  a  hoss  afore. 

Wai',  up  he  rode,  with  a  sunshine  smile, 

A-smokin'  a  cigarette,  an'  I'll 

Be  kicked  in  the  neck  if  I  ever  seen 

Sich  a  saddle  as  that  on  his  queer  machine. 

Why,  it  made  us  laugh,  for  it  wasn't  half 

Big  enough  for  the  back  of  a  suckin'  calf. 

He  tuk  our  fun  in  a  keerless  way, 

A-venturin'  only  once  to  say 

Thar'  wasn't  a  broncho  about  the  place 

Could  down  that  wheel  in  a  ten-mile  race. 

I'd  a  lightnin'  broncho  out  in  the  herd 
That  could  split  the  air  like  a  flyin'  bird, 
An'  I  hinted  round  in  an  off-hand  way 
That,  pervidin'  the  enterprise  'd  pay, 
[104] 


I  thought  as  I  might  jest  happen  to  light 
On  a  hoss  that'd  leave  'im  out  o'  sight. 
In  less'n  a  second  we  seed  'im  yank 
A  roll  o'  greenbacks  out  of  his  flank, 
An'  he  said  if  we  wanted  to  bet  to  name 
The  limit,  an'  he  would  tackle  the  game. 

Just  a  week  afore  we  had  all  been  down 

On  a  jamboree  to  the  nearest  town, 

An'  the  whisky' joints  an'  the  faro  games, 

An'  shakin'  our  hoofs  with  the  dance-house  dames 

Made  a  wholesale  bust,  an',  pard,  I'll  be  cussed 

If  a  man  in  the  outfit  had  any  dust; 

An'  so  I  explained,  but  the  youth  replied 

That  he'd  lay  the  money  matter  aside. 

An'  to  show  that  his  back  didn't  grow  no  moss, 

He'd  bet  his  machine  agin  my  hoss. 

I  tuk  him  up,  and  the  bet  war'  closed, 

An'  me  a-chucklin',  fur  I  supposed 

I  war'  playin'  in  dead  sure  winnin'  luck, 

In  the  softest  snap  I  had  ever  struck, 

An'  the  boys  chipped  in  with  a  knowin'  grin, 

For  they  thought  the  fool  had  no  chance  to  win. 

An'  so  we  agreed  fur  to  run  that  day 
To  the  Navajo  Crossin'  ten  miles  away— 
As  han'some  a  track  as  ever  you  seed 
For  testin'  a  hoss's  purtiest  speed. 
Apache  Johnson  and  Texas  Ned 
Saddled  their  horses  and  rode  ahead 
To  station  themselves  ten  miles  away 
To  act  as  judges  an*  see  fair  play. 
[105] 


While  Mexican  Bart  an*  Big  Jim  Hart 
Stayed  back  for  to  give  us  an  even  start. 

I  got  aboard  o'  my  broncho  bird, 
An'  we  came  to  the  scratch  an'  got  the  word, 
An'  I  laughed  till  my  mouth  spread  from  ear  to  ear 
To  see  that  tenderfoot  drop  to  the  rear. 

The  first  three  miles  slipped  away  first-rate, 
Then  broncho  began  fur  to  lose  his  gait, 
But  I  wa'n't  oneasy,  an'  didn't  mind, 
With  tenderfoot  more'n  a  mile  behind. 
So  I  jogged  along,  with  a  cowboy  song, 
Till  all  of  a  suddent  I  heard  that  gong 
A-ringin'  a  warnin'  in  my  ear, 
Ting!  Ting!  Ting!  Ting!  too  infernal  near, 
An'   lookin'  back'ards   I   seed  the  chump 
Of   a  tenderfoot  gamin'   every   jump! 

I  hit  ol'  broncho  a  cut  with  the  quirt, 
An'  once  more  got  him  to  scratchin'  dirt, 
But  his  wind  seemed  weak,  an'  I  tell  you,  boss, 
I  seed  that  he  wasn't  no  ten-mile  hoss. 
Still  the  plucky  brute  took  another  shoot, 
An*  pulled  away  from  the  wheel  galoot, 
But  the  animal  couldn't  hold  his  gait, 
An'  somehow  the  idee  entered  my  pate 
That  if  tenderfoot's  legs  didn't  lose  their  grip 
He'd  own  that  hoss  at  the  end  o'  the  trip. 

Closer  and  closer  come  tenderfoot, 
An*  harder  the  whip  to  the  hoss  I  put; 
[106] 


But  the  Eastern  cuss,  with  a  smile  on  his  face, 

Ran  up  to  my  side  with  his  easy  pace — 

Rode  up  to  my  side,  an',  durn  his  hide, 

Remarked  'twar'  a  pleasant  day  fur  a  ride; 

Then  axed,  unconsarned,  if  I  had  a  match, 

An*  on  his  breeches  gave  it  a  scratch, 

Lit  a  cigarette,  said  he  wished  me  good  day, 

An',  as  fresh  as  a  daisy,  scooted  away. 

Ahead  he  went — that  infernal  gong 

A-ringin'  "good-bye"  as  he  flew  along; 

An'  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette  came  back 

Like  a  vapory  snicker  along  the  track. 

On  an'  on  he  sped,  gittin'  further  ahead, 

His  feet  keepin'  up  that  onceasable  tread, 

Till  he  faded  away  in  the  distance ;  an'  when 

I  seed  the  condemned  Eastern  rooster  again, 

He  war'  thar'  with  the  boys  at  the  end  of  the  race, 

That  same  keerless,  unconsarned  smile  on  his  face. 

Now,  pard,  w'en  a  cowboy  gits  beat  he  don't  sw'ar, 
Nor  kick,  if  the  beatin'  be  done  on  the  squar' ; 
So  I  tuck  that  Easterner  right  by  the  hand, 
An'  told  him  that  broncho  awaited  his  brand. 
Then  I  asked  'im  his  name,  and  whar'  from  he  came, 
And  how  long  he'd  practiced  the  wheel-rollin'  game. 
Tom  Stevens,  he  said,  war'  his  name,  an'  he  come 
From  a  town  they  call  Bosting,  in  ol'  Yankeedom ; 
Then  he  jist  paralyzed  us  by  sayin'  he'd  whirled 
That  very  identical  wheel  round  the  world. 
Wai',  pard,  thar's  the  story  o'  how  that  smart  chap 
Done  me  up  w'en  I  thought  I  had  sich  a  soft  snap ; 
Done  me  up  on  a  race  with  remarkable  ease, 
An*  lowered  my  pride  a  good  many  degrees. 

[107] 


Did  I  give  'im  the  boss  ?    W'y,  of  course  I  did,  boss, 
An'  I'll  tell  you,  it  wa'n't  no  diminutive  loss. 
He  writ  me  a  letter  from  back  in  the  East, 
An'  said  he'd  presented  the  neat  little  beast 
To  a  feller  named  Pope,  who  stands  at  the  head 
O'  the  ranch  whar'  the  cussed  wheel  horses  ar'  bred. 


THAR'  WAS  JIM 

Wildest  boy  in  all  the  village, 

Up  to  every  wicked  lark, 
Happy  at  a  chance  to  pillage 

Melon  patches  in  the  dark. 
Seemed  a  'tarnal  mischief  breeder, 

Fur  in  every  wicked  whim, 
Put  your  hand  upon  the  leader, 

Thar'   was  Jim. 

He  war'  eighteen  when  the  summons 

Come  fur  Union  volunteers, 
An'  the  firm's  an'  the  drummin's 

An'  the  patriotic  cheers 
Made  us  with  excitement  dance,  sir, 

Even  old  men,  staid  and  prim, 
An'  among  the  fust  to  answer, 

Thar'   was  Jim. 

One  day  when  Gin'ral  wanted 
Volunteers  to  charge  a  place 

Whar'  the  rebel  banner  flaunted 
Imperdently  in  our  face, 
[108] 


Seemed  as  though  the  cannon's  bellers 
Had  no  skeerishness  fur  him, 

Fur  among  the  foremost  fellers, 
Thar'   was  Jim. 

How  we  cheered  'em  at  the  startin' 

On  that  fearful  charge  they  made, 
Fur  it  seemed  that  death  was  sartin' 

In  that  fiery  ambuscade. 
Once  the  smoke  riz  up,  a-showin' 

Them  as  up  the  hill  they  clim, 
An'  ahead  and  still  a-goin' 

Thar'   was  Jim. 

Git  thar'?    Wai',  yer  jest  a  screamin', 

Nothin'  could  have  stopped  them  men — 
Each  one  seemed  a  howlin'  demon 

Chargin'  on  a  fiery  pen. 
Purty  tough  w'en  next  I  found  him, 

Fur,  with  face  all  black  an'  grim, 
Dead,  with  dead  men  all  around  him, 

Thar'   was  Jim. 

Friend  o'  mine?    I  reckon,  sorter — 

Met  him  fust  one  winter's  night — 
Lord!  but  wa'n't  that  storm  a  snorter — 

When  I  went  fur  Doctor  White! 
When  I  heard  my  wife  a  pleadin' 

Me  to  come  an*  look  at  him, 
Lyin'  in  her  arms  a-feedin' 

Thar*  was  Jim. 


[109] 


THE  WOMANHOOD  OF  MAN 

(To  the  man  and  the  poem  ex-Governor  Adams,  of  Colo- 
rado, pays  this  compliment :  "It  is  a  portrait— you  have  thought 
to  idealize;  instead,  you  have  painted  the  heart  picture  of 
Captain  Jack.  Unconsciously  it  is  yourself  that  has  been 
caught  in  your  poetical  kodak.") 

There  is  gold  in  every  fiber 

Of  the  Womanhood  of  Man; 
It  has  ebbed  and  flowed  in  blood  and  tears 

Since  this  old  world  began, 
From  the  veins  and  souls  of  heroes 

And  of  heroines,   since  the  day 
When  women  wept  and  Jesus  died 

To  wash  our  sins  away. 

I  am  just  an  optimistic, 

Reckless,  broncho  sort  of  chap; 
Though  I  stand  for  peace  and  justice 

I  am  always  in  a  scrap; 
But  my  ancestors  were  fighters 

Since  red  warfare  first  began, 
And  my  only  saving  grace  is 

In  the  Womanhood  of  Man. 

I  have  prospected   for  treasure 

In  the  gold  lands  of  the  West, 
I  have  driven  many  a  tunnel 

In  the  mountain's   rugged   breast, 
And  I've  found  each  little  leader 

From  bedrock  to  surface  pan 
Was  a  mother-loaded  magnet 

From  the  Womanhood  of  Man, 

[HO] 


I  have  sunk  down  to  the  bedrock 

In  a  wayward  brother's  soul, 
When  the  whispered  name  of  "Mother" 

Caused  the  God-sent  tears  to  roll 
From  a  seeming  barren  desert 

Down  the  cheeks,  all  bronzed  with  tan; 
It  was  God's  assay  for  "color" 

In  the  Womanhood  of  Man. 

I  have  tested  modest  manhood 

In  the  fiery  front  of  war, 
I  have  analyzed  the  metal 

In  the  blood  of  many  a  scar, 
And  have  found  the  lion-hearted, 

Whole-souled  hero  of  the  clan 
Was  the  optimistic  product 

Of  the  Womanhood  of  Man. 

If  you  want  to  find  the  metal 

That  is  twenty  karats  fine 
You  must  prospect  on  the  surface 

Ere  you  sink  to  strike  the  mine, 
But  you'll  find  it  in  the  tailings 

If  you'll  test  them  with  the  pan — 
Find  the  gold  of  strenuous  manhood 

In  the  Womanhood  of  Man. 

I  would  rather  "face  the  music" 

When  the  wild  Apaches  yell, 
Rather  face  the  hell  of  battle 

Amid  storms  of  shot  and  shell, 
Than  suppress  the  tears  of  gladness, 
[111] 


Or  of  sadness,  while  I  can 
Realize  they  are  the  essence 
Of  the  Womanhood  of  Man. 

'Tis  the  womanhood  of  manhood 

That  is  always  reaching  out; 
It  has  been  my  lone  companion 

While   on   many   a   dangerous   scout, 
And  wherever  fate  may  place  me 

I  shall  do  the  best  I  can 
To  be  worthy  of  the  manhood 

Of  the  Womanhood  of  Man. 


OL'  BILL  REYNOLDS'S  'DOPTED  BOY 

We  all  looked  down  on  the  little  cuss 
When  he  come  to  school  with  the  rest  of  us, 
Just  'cause  he  war'  an  adopted  boy, 
From  an  orphan  'sylum  in  Illinoy. 
He  had  no  parents,  leastwise  he  said, 
Fur  all  he  knowed  both  on  'em  war  dead — 
"Died  'fore  I  was  born,"  he  said  to  me, 
Wen  I  chaffed  him  about  his  pedigree. 

He  didn't  seem  fur  to  have  a  bit 
O'  fightin'  metal  or  spunky  grit, 
But  tuk  our  slurs  in  a  quiet  way, 
An'  endured  our  torments  day  after  day 
Without  so  much  as  a  sass-back  word, 
No  matter  how  off'n  or  hard  we  spurred ; 
The  butt  o'  the  scholar's  fur  wicked  fun 
War'  ol'  Bill  Reynolds's  'dopted  son. 

[112] 


He  larnt  his  lessons — the  teacher  said, 
Wen  the  term  war  over  he'd  be  ahead 
Of  all  us  scholars,  sartin  an'  shore. 
If  we  didn't  tend  to  our  knittin'  more. 
An'  w'en  the  examination  come, 
The  Board  o'  Directors  jes'  struck  us  dumb 
By  givin'  the  prizes,  every  one, 
To  ol'  Bill  Reynolds's  'dopted  son. 

This  made  us  wild,  an'  we  up  an'  swore 
We  wouldn't  go  to  that  school  no  more 
Unless  the  Directors  'd  fix  it  so 
That  little  reperbate  couldn't  go. 
But  afore  the  school  tuk  up  we  heard 
That  ol'  Bill  Reynolds  somehow  preferred 
To  send  him  into  the  city,  whar' 
A  big,  hifalutin'  academy  war'. 

He  come  to  Bill's  on  a  visit  twice, 
Dressed  up  an'  lookin'  uncommon  nice, 
But  never  showed  up  on  the  village  street, 
Jes'  like  he  was  'feared  of  us  boys  he'd  meet. 
'Twar  a  wise  perceedin',  fur  none  of  us 
'D  associate  with  the  nameless  cuss 
That  had  no  pedigree  mor'n  the  one 
Of   ol'   Bill  Reynolds's   'dopted  son. 

It  sorter  surprised  us  w'en  some  one  read 
A  piece  in  the  city  paper  'at  said 
That  Honer'ble  Senator  Blake  had  set 
On  him  fur  a  West  Point  school  cadet. 
Ol'  Bill  moved  East,  an'  we  never  heard 
'Mongst  all  us  boys  not  another  word, 
[113] 


Till  the  big  Secession  War'd  begun, 
Of  ol'   Bill  Reynolds's   'dopted  son. 

Most  of  us  ol'  schoolfellers  went 

At  the  fust  break-out  of  the  devilment, 

An'  I  reckon  thar'  wasn't  a  wilder  cuss 

Than  me  in  that  hull  rebellion  muss. 

Dissipatin'  an'  playin'  cards, 

The  scum  o'  the  rigiment  'mong  my  pards — 

Never  stopped  fur  a  breathin'  spell 

In  my  reckless  run  fur  the  gates  o'  hell! 

It  seems  like  a  nightmare  lookin'  back — 
A  gamblin'  quarrel — a  pistol's  crack— 
A  schoolboy  comrade  by  my  hand  slain — 
A  hand  impelled  by  a  rum-crazed  brain. 
The  dread  court-martial,  my  quick-drawn  breath, 
As  I  heard  the  words,  "To  be  shot  to  death !" 
The  nameless  terror  that  clung  to  me 
As  I  peered  o'er  the  brink  of  eternity! 

My  mother  came,  with  her  pale,  sad  face, 
From  our  village  home  to  our  prison  place — 
Came  with  the  old-time  glad  voice  hushed — 
Came  with  a  heart  my  hand  had  crushed, 
Kissed  and  embraced  me  as  of  yore, 
Called  me  her  darling  o'er  and  o'er, 
Humbly  knelt  by  my  side  and  prayed 
That  the  stern  hand  of  justice  might  be  stayed. 

Her  face  reflected  her  heart's  keen  pains 
As  she  heard  the  ring  o'  my  clankin'  chains ; 
Eyes  that  beamed  love  in  the  bygone  years 

[114] 


Were  dulled  with  sorrow's  most  bitter  tears. 
Her  hand  on  my  burnin'  head  she  laid, 
And  bad  me  pray  as  I  never  prayed; 
As  for  me  with  tremblin'  steps  she  went 
With  one  last  hope  to  the  General's  tent. 

The  ensuin'  hour  seemed  a  year  to  me 

As  I  waited  thar'  in  my  misery. 

The  sentry  with  sympathetic  face 

Marched  to  and  fro  with  a  funeral  pace. 

O'er  the  face  o'  the  sun  there  crept  a  cloud, 

Filmy  and  white  as  a  coffin  shroud, 

An'  a  raven  on  distant  wooded  slope 

Seemed  to  croak  the  warnin' :  "No  hope,  no  hope !" 

Down  through  the  aisles  o'  the  tented  camp 
Came  a   squad  of  guards   with  a  tramp,  tramp, 

tramp. 

Half  dazed  I  marched  'mid  the  glistenin'  guns, 
Borne  proudly  by  Union's  blue-clad  sons; 
Marched  to  headquarters  an'  stood  before 
The  great  commander,  whose  broad  brow  wore 
Undyin'  laurels  his  skill  had  won 
On  a  dozen  fields  'neath  the  Southern  sun. 

My  brain  war*  awhirl !  The  events  now  seem 
As  the  shadowy  memories  of  a  dream; 
The  smile  o*  my  mother,  sad  but  sweet, 
As  she  sat  on  a  stool  at  the  General's  feet. 
I  can  see  the  General's  courtly  grace, 
As  he  raised  his  eyes  to  my  pallid  face — 
"My  boy,  your  mother's  prayers  have  won; 
You  are  pardoned — by  Reynolds's  'dopted  son !" 
[115] 


SANCTIMON'YUS  IKE 

An  early-day  inspiration  and  a  truthful   story  that  ended   in 
a  necktie  party. 

His  quiet  ways  an'  honest  look 

Won  all  the  diggin's  at  the  start ; 
His  eyes  seemed  like  an  open  book 

In  which  we  read  his  guileless  heart. 
He  first  showed  up  at  Placer  Mound, 

Just  after  that  big  '80  strike, 
An'   unobtrusive   loafed  around, 

All  unconcarned  and  quiet  like. 

Some  said  he  war'  a  millionaire 

From  Frisco,  lookin'  up  a  snap, 
While  others  said  he  had  the  air 

O'   some   revival  gospel   chap. 
The  boys  soon  tied  him  to  the  name 

O'    "Parson    Sanctimon'yus    Ike," 
Just  'cause  he  played  the  pious  game 

So  unconcarned  an'  quiet  like. 

He  nursed  the  sick,  spoke  words  o'  cheer 

To  them  as  rassel'd  with  despair, 
An'  at  the  bed  o'  pain  you'd  hear 

His  low,  sad  voice  in  earnest  prayer. 
No  matter  whar'   distress  war'   found, 

You'd  find  this  Sanctimon'yus  Ike 
Jes'  like  a  angel  movin'  round, 

So  unconcarned  an'   quiet  like. 

One  night  the  safe  in  which  war'  kep' 
The  dust  o'   ev'ry  man  in  camp, 

War'  busted  open  while  we  slep', 

By  some  mean,  ornery,  thievin'  scamp. 
[116] 


We  tuk  the  trail  amazin'  quick, 
An'  soon  foun'  Sanctimon'yus  Ike 

Leadin'  a  pack-mule  down  the  creek, 
All  unconcarned  an'  quiet  like. 

The  stuff  war'  found,  a  jedge  war'  chose, 

An'  thar'  beneath  a  jack-oak  tree 
The  court  convened,  an'  when  it  rose 

We  tuk  the  back  trail  quietly. 
As  up  the  moutain  side  we  clim' 

We  tuk  a  backward  glance  at  Ike 
A-hangin'   from  a  jack-oak  lim', 

All  unconcarned  an'  quiet  like. 


THE  LAST  ROLL-CALL 

With  pallid  face  a  soldier  brave  lay  dying, 

His  life-blood  dampening  the  Southern  sod, 
While  all  around  him  bleeding  forms  were  lying, 

With  dim  and  death-touched  eyes  upturned  to  God. 
On  every  side  the  battle  roared  and  thundered, 

And  shot  and  shell  with  maddening  shrieks  flew  by, 
And  many  souls,  from  mangled  bodies  sundered, 

Soared  upward  to  the  Master's  camp  on  high. 

"Here!  Here!"  the  dying  soldier  eager  muttered, 

As  passing  'comrade  knelt  above  his  form 
And  asked  him  what  he  wished — if  he  had  uttered 

The  call  for  help  amid  the  battle's  storm. 
"Ah!"  he  replied,  "I  need  no  help  from  mortal 

(And  o'er  his  face  a  smile  angelic  came), 
The  roll  is  being  called  at  Heaven's  portal, 

And  I  but  answered  when  I  heard  my  name." 

[117] 


RATTLIN'  JOE'S  PRAYER 

(Written  from  a  Camp  Fire  Story,  told  by  California  Joe, 
in  the  Black  Hills  in  1876.  Monte  Bill  was  Rattlin'  Joe's 
gambling  partner.  Both  were  raised  by  Christian  mothers  to 
whom  they  were  devoted,  and  who  believed  their  boys  were 
bankers,  which  was  true.  They  ran  a  Faro  Bank. 

Bill  died,  and  just  before  he  closed  his  eyes  he  said,  "Joe, 
I  wouldn't  mind  passin'  in  my  chips  if  I  thought  I  could  have 
a  Christian  burial,  so  that  mother  might  know  I  had  a  halle- 
lujah send-off."  With  tears  in  his  eyes  Joe  promised  Bill 
he  should  if  it  cost  him  his  last  scad;  but  there  was  not  a 
preacher  within  200  miles,  and  not  even  a  prayer-book  could 
be  found.  Rattlin'  Joe  did  the  best  he  knew  how,  saying, 
"Pards,  yer  kin  git  good  out  o'  anything,  if  ye  put  it  to  the 
right  use."  Then  he  made  a  "prayer-book"  out  of  a  pack  of 
cards.  The  verses  tell  the  rest  of  the  story. 

This  poem  Captain  Crawford  first  recited  in  Henry  Ward 
Beecher's  church,  old  Plymouth,  Brooklyn,  at  a  Ladies'  Fair. 
The  Rev.  Beecher  smilingly  pronounced  it  "most  innocently 
sacrilegious.") 

'Twas  the  year  eighteen  hundred  an'  sixty, 

One  day  in  the  bright  month  o'  June, 
When  the  angel  o'  Death  from  the  diggings 

Snatched  "Monte  Bill" — known  as  McCune. 
Wai',  Bill  war'  a  favorite  among  us, 

In  spite  o'  the  trade  that  he  had, 
Which  war'  gambling  but  don't  you  forget  it — 

He  of 'en  made  weary  hearts  glad; 
An',  pards,  while  he  lay  in  that  coffin, 

Which  we  hewed  from  the  trunk  of  a  tree, 
His  face  war'  as  calm  as  a  angel's, 

An'  white  as  a  angel's  could  be. 

An'  thar's  whar'  the  trouble  commenced,  pards, 
Thar'  war'  no  gospel  sharps  in  the  camps, 

An'  Joe  said,  "We  can't  drop  him  this  way, 
Without  some  directions  or  stamps." 
[118] 


Then  up  spoke  old  Sandy  McGregor: 

"Look'ee  yar,  mates,  I'm  reg'lar  dead  stuck, 
I  can't  hold  no  hand  at  religion, 

An'  I'm  feared  Bill's  gone  "in  out  o'  luck. 
If  I  knowed  a  darn  thing  about  prayin' 

I'd  chip  in  an'  say  him  a  mass; 
But  I  ain't  got  no  show  in  the  lay-out, 

I  can't  beat  the  game,  so  I  pass." 

Rattlin'  Joe  war'  the  next  o'  the  speakers, 

An'  Joe  war'  a  friend  o'  the  dead; 
The  salt  water  stood  in  his  peepers, 

An'  these  are  the  words  as  he  said: 
"Mates,  ye  know  as  I  ain't  any  Christian, 

An'  I'll  gamble  the  good  Lord  don't  know 
That  thar'  lives  sich  a  rooster  as  I  am; 

But  thar'  once  war'  a  time  long  ago, 
When  I  war'  a  kid;  I  remember, 

My  old  mother  sent  me  to  school 
To  the  little  old  church  round  the  corner, 

Whar'  they  said  I  war'  dumb  as  a  mule. 
An'  I  reckon  I've  nearly  forgotten 

Purty  much  all  that  ever  I  knew; 
But  still,  if  ye'll  drop  to  my  racket, 

I'll  show  ye  jist  what  I  kin  do. 

*'Now,  I'll  show  you  a  prayer-book,"  said  Joseph- 
"Jist  hand  me  them  cards  off  that  rack; 

I'll  convince  ye  that  this  are  a  Bible," 
An'  he  went  to  work  shufflin'  the  pack. 

Then  he  spread  out  the  cards  on  the  table 
An'  began  kinder  pious  like:    "Pards, 
[119] 


If  ye'll  jist  cheese  yer  racket  an'  listen, 
I'll  show  ye  the  prayer-book  in  cards! 

"The  ace,  that  reminds  us  o'  one  God, 

The  deuce  o'  the  Father  an'  Son, 
The  tray,  o'  the  Father  and  Son,  Holy  Ghost, 

For  ye  see  all  them  Three*  are  but  One. 
The  four-spot  is  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke  an'  John, 

The  five-spot,  the  virgins  who  trimmed 
Their  lamps  while  it  was  light  of  the  day, 

An'  the  other  five  virgins  who  sinned, 
The  six-spot,  in  six  days  the  Lord  made  the  earth, 

The  sea  an'  the  stars  in  the  heaven; 
He  saw  it  war'  good  w'at  He  did,  then  He  said, 

'I'll  jist  take  a  rest  on  the  seven/ 
The  eight-spot  is  Noah,  his  wife  and  three  sons, 

An'  Noah's  three  sons  had  their  wives ; 
God  loved  the  hull  mob,  so  bid  'em  embark — 

In  the  freshet  He  saved  all  their  lives ; 
The  nine  war'  the  lepers  of  Biblical  fame — 

A  repulsive  an'  hideous  squad — 
The  ten  are  the  holy  commandments  which  came 

To  us  perishin'  sinners  from  God. 
The  Queen  war  of  Sheba  in  old  Bible  times, 

The  King  represents  old  King  Sol, 
An'  the  knave,  that's  the  devil, — an'  God  if  ye  please, 

Jist  keep  his  hands  off'n  poor  Bill. 
An*  now,  lads,  git  down  on  yer  bended  knees 

Till  I  draw,  and  perhaps  I  kin  fill; 
An'  havin'  no  Bible,  I'll  pray  on  the  cards, 

Fur  I've  showed  ye  they're  all  on  the  squar', 
An'  maybe  God'll  cotton  to  all  that  I  say, 

If  I'm  only  sincere  in  the  pra'r. 

[120] 


I'm  lost  on  the  rules  o'  yer  game,  but  I'll  ax 

Fur  a  seat  fur  him  back  o'  the  Throne, 
An'  I'll  bet  my  hull  stack  that  the  boy'll  behave 

If  yer  angels  jist  lets  him  alone. 
Thar's  nothin'  bad  'bout  him  unless  he  gits  riled — 

The  boys'll  all  back  me  in  that—- 
But if  anyone  treads  on  his  corns,  Lord,  you  bet 

He'll  fight  at  the  drop  o'  the  hat. 
Jist  don't  let  yer  angels  run  over  him,  Lord, 

Nor  shut  off  all  to  once  on  his  drink; 
Break  him  in  kinder  gentle  an'  mild  on  the  "start, 

An'  he'll  give  ye  no  trouble,  I  think. 
An'  couldn't  ye  give  him  a  pack  o'  old  cards, 

To  amuse  himself  once  in  a  while? 
But  don't  let  yer  angels  chip  in  on  his  game, 

'Cause  he'll  get  right  away  with  their  pile. 
An'  now,  Lord,  I  hope  that  ye've  tuck  it  all  in, 

An'  listend  to  all  that  I've  said. 
I  know  that  my  pray  in'  is  jest  a  bit  thin, 

But  I've  done  all  I  could  fur  the  dead. 
An'  I  hope  I  hain't  troubled  yer  Lordship  too  much — 

So  I'll  cheese  it  by  axin'  agin 
That  ye  won't  let  the  knave  get  his  grip  on  poor  Bill; 

That's  all,  Lord — yours  truly — amen." 


[121] 


AN  OLD  TRAPPER'S  RELIGION 

I  ain't  goin'  ter  preach  ye  a  sermon, 

Nor  I  ain't  goin'  ter  sing  ye  a  song, 
An'  I  reckon  as  how  ye  won't  think  so 

If  I  don't  draw  my  story  too  long; 
But  I  am  jest  from  the  church  in  the  city, 

Whar'  I  hear'n  the  ol'  parson  man  tell 
'Bout  the  psalm-singer's  home  up  in  Heaven, 

An'  the  sinners'  hot  layout  in  Hell 

An'  I  didn't  at  first  understan'  him ; 

Ye  see,  I  sot  back  near  the  door, 
With  my  leg  stuck  'way  inter  a  tunnel, 

An'  my  slouch  layin'  flat  on  the  floor ; 
But  somehow  his  words  sot  me  thinkin' 

An'  it  worried  me  ever  so  long, 
Tilf  I  dropped  on  the  settled  conclusion 

That  he  drawed  it  a  little  too  strong. 

Sez  he,  ye  must  all  git  religion, 

An'  stay  with  the  rules  o'  the  church, 
Or  else  on  the  great  Day  o'  Judgment 

Ye'll  surely  get  left  in  the  lurch. 
Sez  he,  now's  the  day  o'  salvation, 

Fur  why  do  ye  weaken  an*  wait? 
Fly  'way  from  that  trail  strewed  with  pleasure, 

'Cos  it  leads  right  direct  to  Hell's  gate. 

Then  I  ax'd  myself,  what  is  this  racket 
That  he  seems  so  dead  earnest  about? 

Is  it  sittin'  close  up  to  the  pulpit 
To  jine  in  the  gineral  shout  ? 
[122] 


Is  it  wearin'  a  face  like  a  bean-pole, 

Chippin'  in  with  a  lusty  amen, 
An'  loafin  aroun'  in  the  temple 

While  the  beggar  lies  sick  in  his  pen? 

Ar'  these  psalm-singin'  nabobs  religious, 

'Cause  they  pray  in  a  satin-lined  box, 
An'  all  the  time  durin'  the  preachin' 

Keep   plannin'   their  next   steal   in   stocks? 
Do  they  think  they  kin  waltz  into  glory 

Because  they're  mixed  in  with  the  flock? 
Not  much !  They'll  git  left  on  the  margin, 

For  Christ  will  go  down  to  bed  rock. 

O'  course,  they  are  looked  on  as  Christians, 

Tho'  they  gamble  all  week  on  the  board, 
They  freely  come  down  with  the  wherewith 

To  help  on  the  cause  of  the  Lord. 
But  I  think  at  the  last  resurrection 

They'll  have  nothin'  but  wildcat  to  sell, 
An'  instead  o'  the  stockboard  in  heaven 

They'll  git  points  on  a  corner  in  hell. 

Ar'  they  bound  to  take  lodgin's  with  Satan, 

That  labor  an*  toil  day  by  day 
For  yer  gilt-edged  Sunday  professers — 

Like  Duncan* — on  starvation  pay? 
Ar'  they  bound  ter  take  lodgin's  with  Satan, 

While  Duncan,  the  deacon,  steals  all 


*J.  C.  Duncan,  manager  of  the  Pioneer  Bank  of  San 
Francisco,  who  was  a  pillar  of  the  church,  and  stole  $2,000,000 
from  the  depositors,  and  who  denounced  the  honest  prayer 
of  "Rattlin'  Joe"  as  sacrilegious. 

[123] 


An'  pay  with  the  sweat  o'  the  poor  man 
The  price  of  a  sanctified  stall? 

Ar'  they  to  be  damned  inter  torment, 

An'  driv  through  unquenchable  flames 
'Cause  the  big  book  in  front  o'  the  pulpit 

Don't  happen  ter  show  up  their  names? 
Is  the  Devil  a-goin'  ter  yank  'em 

To  his  kingdom  of  fire  below, 
Jist  'cause  they  don't  jine  in  their  meetings, 

An'  work  in  the  very  same  row? 

In  short,  can't  a  man  as  lives  honest, 

An'  don't  take  the  devil  inside 
(Fur  no  man  can  be  a  good  Christian 

An'  yet  from  his  sideboard  imbibe)  ; 
If  he  does  every  day  by  his  neighbor 

As  he'd  have  that  same  neighbor  to  do, 
Won't  he  fare  jest  as  well  at  the  clean-up 

As  if  worth  a  million  or  two? 

The  churches  are  good  institutions; 

I  like  to  hear  good  preachers  tell 
'Bout  Christ  an'  the  good  o'  religion, 

But  they  ought  to  preach  temperance  as  well; 
'Cause  rum's  the  stronghold  o'  the  devil, 

An'  a  man  as  drinks  don't  always  win, 
'Cause  he  never  kin  keep  hisself  level, 

Since  rum  is  a  cuss  and  a  sin. 

But  I  tell  ye,  a  man  as  lives  honest, 
If  he  never  hears  tell  o'  the  church, 

Kin  jest  be  as  happy  hereafter, 
An'  roost  on  a  heavenly  perch, 
[124] 


We're  all  in  the  way  o'  temptation, 
Thar's  no  one  who's  free  from  all  sin, 

But  Christ  won't  go  back  on  us  poor  folks, 
If  we  do  jest  the  best  that  we  kin. 


THE  TRUE  STORY  OF  MARCHING  THROUGH 
GEORGIA 

We  never  found  a  chicken  that  could  roost  out  of  our 

reach, 
We  seldom  had  a  chaplain  that  could  find  the  time  to 

preach, 

We  never  saw  a  soldier  pass  a  shirt  hung  out  to  bleach, 
As  we  went  marching  through  Georgia. 

Oh,   how   we   used   to   toil   along   right   through   the 

swamps  and  bogs, 

And  how  the  ladies  blushed  at  our  dilapidated  togs, 
And  how  we  showed  our  bravery  assassinating  hogs, 
As  we  went  marching  through  Georgia. 

When  charging  on  a  chicken  roost  the  rebel  girls  cried 
"Shame!" 

And  said  our  actions  would  disgrace  the  soldiers'  hon- 
ored name ; 

They  came  at  us  with  clubs  and  dogs,  but  we  got  there 

just  the  same, 
As  we  went  marching  through  Georgia. 

When  coming  in  from  foraging  sometimes  we  would 

get  caught, 
The  Colonel  then  would  paw  the  ground  and  swear 

he'd  have  us  shot, 

[125] 


And  then  he'd  eye  our  captured  fowls  and  fine  us  half 

we'd  got, 
As  we  went  marching  through  Georgia. 

When  ordered  up  some  earthwork  or  some  battery  to 

take, 
I've  seen  some  heavy  charges  that  caused  the  earth 

to  quake; 
They  were  nothing  to  the  charges  the  sutlers  used  to 

make, 
As  we  went  marching  through  Georgia. 


THE  VETERAN  AND  HIS  GRANDSON 

(This  poem  was  first  recited  by  the  author  at  Henry  Ward 
Beecher's  Church,  Old   Plymouth,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.) 

Hold  on ! .  Hold  on !  My  goodness,  you  take  my 
'breath,  my  son, 

A-firin'  questions  at  me,  like  shots  from  a  Gatlin'  gun! 

Why  do  I  wear  this  eagle  an'  flag  an*  brazen  star, 

An'  why  do  my  old  eyes  glisten  when  somebody  men- 
tions war? 

An'  why  do  I  call  men  "Comrade,"  an'  why  do  my  eyes 
grow  bright 

When  you  hear  me  tell  your  grandma  I'm  going  to 
Post  tonight? 

Com*  here,  you  inquisitive  rascal,  an'  set  on  your 
granddad's  knee, 

An'  I'll  try  an'  answer  the  broadsides  you've  been 
a-firin'  at  me. 

[126] 


Away  back  there  in  the  sixties,  long  time  afore  you 

were  born, 
The  news  come  a-flashin'  to  us,  one  bright  an'  sunny 

morn, 
That  some  of  our   Southern  brothers,  a-thinkin',  no 

doubt,  't  war'  right, 
Had  trained  their  guns  on  our  banner,  an'  opened  a 

nasty  fight; 
The  great  big  guns  war'  a-boomin',  an'  the  shot  flyin' 

thick  an'  fast,  • 

An'  troops  all  over  the  Southland  were  rapidly  bein' 

massed, 
An'  a  thrill  went  through  the  nation,  a  fear  that  our 

glorious  land 
Might   be   split   an'   divided   an'    ruined   by   mistaken 

brother's  hand. 

Lord!  but  wa'n't  there  excitement,  an'  didn't  the  boys' 
eyes  flash! 

An'  didn't  we  cuss  our  brothers  for  bein'  so  foolish 
an'  rash! 

An'  didn't  we  raise  the  neighbors  with  loud  an'  con- 
tinued cheers 

When  Abe  sent  out  that  document  a-callin'  for  volun- 
teers ! 

An'  didn't  we  flock  to  the  standard  when  the  drums 
began  to  beat — 

An'  didn't  we  march  with  proud  step  along  the  village 
street ! 

An*  didn't  the  people  cheer  us  when  we  got  aboard  the 
cars, 

With  the  flag  a-wavin*  o'er  us,  an*  went  away  to  the 
wars! 

[127] 


I'll  never  forget  your  grandma  as  she  stood  outside  o' 

the  train, 
Her  face  as  white  as  a  snowdrift,  her  tears  a-fallin' 

like  rain — 
She  stood  there  quiet  and  deathlike,  'mid  all  o'  the 

rush  and  the  noise, 
For  the  war  was  a-takin'  from  her  her  husband  and 

three  brave  boys — 
Bill,  Charley  and  little  Tommy — just  turned  eighteen, 

but  as  true 

An*  gallant  a  little  soldier  as  ever  wore  the  blue ; 
It  seemed  almost  like  murder  fur  to  tear  her  poor 

heart  so, 
But  your  grandad  couldn't  stay,  baby,  an'  the  boys  war' 

determined  to  go. 

The  evenin'  afore  we  started  she  called  the  boys  to  her 

side 
An'  told  'em  as  how  they  war'  always  their  mother's 

joy  an'  pride, 
An',  though  her  soul  was  in  torture,  an'  her  poor  heart 

bleedin'  an'  sore, 
An'  though  she  needed  her  darlings,  the  country  needed 

them  more. 
She  told   'em  to   do   their  duty,   wherever  their   feet 

might  roam, 
An'  to  never  forget  in  battle  their  mother  was  prayin' 

at  home, 
An'  if    (an'  the  tears  nigh  choked  her)    they  should 

fall  in  front  o'  the  foe, 
She'd  go  to  the  blessed  Savior  an'  ax  Him  to  lighten 

the  blow. 

[128] 


Bill  lays  an'  awaits  the  summons  'neath  Spottsylvania's 
sod, 

An'  on  the  field  of  Antietam  Charley's  spirit  went  back 
to  God, 

An'  Tommy,  our  baby  Tommy,  we  buried  one  star- 
lit night 

Along  with  his  fallen  comrades,  just  after  the  Wilder- 
ness fight. 

The  lightnin'  struck  our  family  tree,  an'  stripped  it  of 
every  limb, 

A-leavin'  only  this  bare  old  trunk  a-standin'  alone  an' 
grim. 

My  boy,  that's  why  your  grandma,  when  you  kneel  to 
the  God  you  love, 

Makes  you  ax  Him  to  watch  your  uncles,  an'  make  'em 
happy  above. 

That's  why  you  sometimes  see  her  with  the  tear-drops 

•in  her  eyes; 
That's  why  you  sometimes  catch  her  a-tryin'  to  hide 

her  sighs; 
That's  why  at  our  great  reunions  she  looks  so  solemn 

an*  sad; 
That's  why  her  heart  seems  a-breakin'  when  the  boys 

are  jolly  an'  glad ; 
That's  why  you  sometimes  find  her  in  the  bedroom 

overhead, 
Down  on  her  knees  a-prayin',  with  their  pictures  laid 

out  on  the  bed; 
That's  why  the  old-time  brightness  will  light  up  her 

face  no  more, 
Till  she  meets  her  hero  warriors  in  the  camp  on  the 

other  shore. 

[129] 


An'  when  the  great  war  was  over,  back  came  the  vet- 
erans true, 
With  not  one  star  a-missin'  from  that  azure  field  of 

blue; 
An'  the  boys,  who  on  field  o'  battle  had  stood  the  fiery 

test, 
Formed  posts  o'  the  great  Grand  Army  in  the  North, 

South,  East  an'  West. 
Fraternity,  Charity,  Loyalty,  is  the  motto  'neath  which 

they  train, 
Their  object  to  care  for  the  helpless  an'  banish  sorrow 

an'  pain 
From  the  homes  o'  the  widows  an'  orphans  o'  the  boys 

who  have  gone  before, 
To   answer  their  name  at   roll-call,   in   God's    Grand 

Army  corps. 

An'  that's  why  we  wear  these  badges,  the  eagle  an'  flag 

an'  star, 
Worn  only  by  veteran  heroes  who  fought  in  that  bloody 

war; 
An'  that's  why  my  old  eyes  glisten  while  talkin'  about 

the  fray, 
An'  that's  why  I  call  men  "Comrade"  when  I  meet  'em 

every  day; 
An'   that's   why   I   tell   your  grandma,   "I'm   goin'   to 

Post  tonight," 
For  there's  where  I  meet  the  old  boys  who  stood  with 

me  in  the  fight. 
An',  my  child,  that's  why  I've  taught  you  to  love  an' 

revere  the  men 

Who  come  here  a-wearin'  badges,  to  fight  their  bat- 
tles again. 

[130] 


For  they  are  gallant  heroes  who  stood  'mid  the  shot 

an'  shell, 
An'   followed  the  flying  colors  right  into  the  mouth 

o'  hell; 
They  are  the  men  whose  valor  saved  this  land  from 

disgrace  an'  shame, 
An'  lifted  her  back  in  triumph  to  her  perch  on  the 

dome  o'  fame ; 
An'  as  long  as  you  live,  my  darling,  till  your  pale  lips 

in  death  are  mute, 
When  you  see  that  badge  on  a  bosom,  take  off  your  hat 

and  salute, 
An'  if  any  old  vet  should  halt  you,  an'  question  you  why 

you  do, 

Just  tell  him  you've  got  a  right  to,  for  your  grand- 
dad's a  comrade,  too. 


WHEN  BILL  COME  HOME 

Hold  'im?    No.    A  yoke  o'  steers 

Couldn't  hold  that  boy  o'  mine, 
Wen  the  call  fur  volunteers 

Come  a-ringin'  down  the  line. 
Patriotism,  strong  an'  pure, 

Hit  'im  like  a  burstin'  bomb — 
Said  he'd  be  a  gin'ral,  sure, 

Wen  he  come  home. 

Course  his  mother  up  an'  cried, 
Jes'  as  any  mother  would 
[131] 


Ef  her  only  joy  an'  pride 

Went  away,  perhaps  fur  good, 

But  he  knocked  her  reasonin' 
Inter  sort  o'  honeycomb — 

Sed  he'd  make  her  smile  ag'in 
Wen  he  come  home. 

Off  he  marched,  an'  I  suppose 

No  one  in  the  regiment 
Looked  so  fine  in  soger  clothes 

As  our  Bill  the  day  he  went. 
Neighbors  'lowed  he'd  turn  out  bad, 

But  we  told  'em  how  we'd  show'm 
Wat  a  noble  boy  we  had 

Wen  Bill  comes  home. 

Got  a  letter  now  an'  then 

Tellin'  how  he  got  along, 
How  he  thought  o'  mother  w'en 

Tempted  fur  to  do  a  wrong. 
"An',"  sed  she,  "you'll  shout  so  loud 

That  you'll  shatter  Heaven's  dome, 
'Cause  you'll  feel  so  monstrous  proud 

Wen   Bill  comes  home." 

'Mong  his  letters  thar'  was  one 

More'n  all  the  rest,  perhaps, 
Pleased  us,  fur  he's  said  he'd  won 

A  leftenant's  shoulder  straps 
Fur  his  bravery  in  a  row 

Down  in  Georgy,  front  o'  Rome — 
Said  we'd  hold  our  heads  up  now, 

Wen  he  come  home. 

[132] 


Purty  soon  the  papers  said 

That  fur  conduct  o'  some  sort, 
Owin'  to  the  way  he  led 

Of  his  sogers  'gin  a  fort, 
Some  affair  was  read  out  loud 

Makin'  of  him  "Captain"  Bloom — 
"Lor' !"  we  said,  "Won't  we  be  proud, 

Wen  Bill  comes  home." 

Then  the  news  went  o'er  the  land 

O'  that  great  Atlanta  fight, 
An'  we  couldn't  understand 

Why  our  William  didn't  write. 
Neighbors  tried  to  lift  us  out 

O'  the  orful  cloud  o'  gloom — 
Sed  they'd  come  an'  help  us  shout, 

W'en  Bill  come  home. 


Coffin  in  the  baggage  car, 

Black  as  ever  black  could  be. 
All  the  neighbors  standin'  thar', 

Pityin'  of  wife  an'  me 
Meetin'  of  our  darlin'  boy 

Jes'  to  put  'im  in  the  tomb, 
Give  us  sorrow,  'stead  o'  joy, 

W'en  Bill  come  home. 


[133] 


NOT  A  SIN  TO  LIE  THAT  WAY 

The  old  vets  now  will  often  sit,  and  tell  their  loving 

wives 
Of  many  stirring  incidents  that  crossed  their  soldier 

lives — 
The  marches,  camps  and  sieges,  the  battles  hard  they 

fought, 
And  how  they  stood  up  gallantly  amid  the  storms  of 

shot; 
But   raids  on   chicken   rendezvous  they'll  swear  they 

never  made, 

Nor  ever  helped  assassinate  a  hog  in  Southern  glade, 
Nor    ever    "beat"    the    sutler    when   they    drew    their 

monthly  pay — 
And  seem  to  think  it  not  a  sin  to  lie  that  way. 

They'll  talk  of  great  privations  they  were  called  on  to 
endure, 

And  how  they'd  laugh  at  hardships  which  their  "kick- 
ing" couldn't  cure — 

The  beating  rains,  the  driving  snows,  and  many  a  dire 
distress 

They  will  relate  in  sentences  of  glowing  vividness. 

They'll  scowl  with  indignation  at  a  hint  of  how  they 
shirked, 

And  how  the  many  "soldier"  games  successfully  they 
worked ; 

They    never    dodged    guard    duty,    but    were    always 
prompt,  they'll  say, 

And  seem  to  think  it  not  a  sin  to  lie  that  way. 

[134] 


They'll  tell  of  how  from  blanket  beds  their  truant 
thoughts  would  roam 

Unto  the  dear,  good,  loyal  girls  they  left  in  distant 
home, 

And  how  their  martial  hearts  would  throb  with  rap- 
ture at  the  thought 

Of  sweethearts'  loving  welcome  when  the  battles  all 
were  fought. 

Just  hint  to  one  that  he  was  sweet  on  some  fair  South- 
ern girl, 

He'll  shake  his  head  emphatic,  and  his  lip  will  scornful 
curl; 

He'll  say  that  to  his  own  love  he  was  loyal  every  day, 

And  seems  to  think  it  not  a  sin  to  lie  that  way. 

With  faces  tinged  with  sorrow  as  memory  takes  them 

back, 
They'll  tell  of  pangs  of  hunger  when  the  rations  would 

get  slack, 

And  how  the  corn  from  mules  they'd  filch,  so  desper- 
ate did  they  grow, 
While  staring  in  starvation's  face  in  chase  of  Southern 

foe. 
And  then,  with  look  of  innocence,  they'll  tell  of  many  a 

raid 
Their  more  ungodly  comrades  on  the  big  plantations 

made, 
But  raiding  was  a  crime  which  at  their  own  doors 

didn't  lay — 

They  seem  to  think  it  not  a  sin  to  lie  that  way. 

[135] 


JIM'S  LETTER 

I  sat  on  the  crest  on  the  mountain  high 

Overlooking  Jorando's   plain; 
A  mocking-bird  sang  in  the  woods  close  by 

In  a  glad  and  sweet  refrain, 
And  the  doves  were  cooing  among  the  trees, 

And  the  deer  browsed  at  my  feet, 
With  the  sweet  o£  wild  flowers  perfuming  the  breeze 

It  was  Nature  in  Nature's  retreat. 

And  my  heart  just  danced  to  the  songbird's  tune, 

And  forgotten  was  every  care, 
And  it  seemed  that  balmy  and  flowery  June 

Instead  of  the  Winter  was  there, 
And  I  rolled  on  the  ground  and  laughed  and  sang 

In  a  joyous  and  glad  refrain, 
Till  the  deer  ran  off  and  the  old  woods  rang, 

And  the  echo  came  back  again. 

Then  a  shot  rang  out  and  a  bang !  bang !  bang ! 

And  my  heart  leaped  again  with  joy, 
And  I  laughed  once  more  till  the  old  woods  rang, 

For  I  knew  it  was  Harry,  my  boy. 
Then  near  to  my  side  on  his  foaming  mare 

He  stopped,  and  I  held  my  breath; 
His  face  was  the  picture  of  cold  despair, 

And  as  white  as  the  face  of  death. 

"Speak  out!     Great  God,  don't  look  like  that, 
With  your  white  face  dusty  and  grim!" 

Then  he  said,  as  he  raised  his  broad-rimmed  hat, 
"Here's  a  letter  from  Corporal  Jim." 
[136] 


And  he  stole  away  to  a  tree  close  by, 

With  his  head  drooping  low  on  his  breast; 

I  knew  it  was  death  by  the  tear  in  his  eye — 
Jim's  letter  must  tell  the  rest. 

The  blood  in  my  veins  seemed  its  course  to  retrace, 

And  the  song-birds  of  Heaven  were  still, 
An  eclipse  came  over  the  sunny  face 

Of  that  joyous  and  gladsome  hill. 
All  nature  seemed  hushed  as  I  held  in  my  hand 

That  message  from  comrade  of  mine, 
And  I  can't  explain  and  I  don't  understand, 

But  somehow  it  started  the  brine. 

With  eager  eyes  and  with  trembling  hand 

I  gazed  for  an  instant,  and  then 
My  heart  stood  still ;  the  writing  I  scanned 

Was  from  one  of  God's  own  noblemen. 
The  seal  was  broken  and  the  mist  arose 

In  my  eyes  while  I  read  it  out: 
"Who'll  champion  us  now,  God  only  knows, 

Since  Logan  is  mustered  out.'- 

Oh,  comrades  of  mine,  he  was  dearer  to  me 

Than  the  wealth  of  my  Western  wild. 
And  the  soft,  balmy  breeze  and  the  doves  on  the  tree 

Seemed  to  moan,  while  I  wept  like  a  child. 
Yes,  boys,  and  I  want  you  to  understand 

What  I  say  I  will  never  take  back, 
And  I  thought  it  was  noble  and  brave  and  grand 

To  cry  for  a  hero  like  Jack. 
[137] 


To  cry  in  the  wildwood  when  no  one  was  near, 

Save  my  boy,  and  he  joined  me,  you  bet, 
For  a  child  of  a  soldier  to  Jack  was  most  dear, 

And  his  grave  with  their  tears  will  keep  wet. 
And  who,  if  not  I,  should  inscribe  to  the  name 

Of  that  hero  now  gone  to  his  rest, 
A  song  from  the  wildwood,  the  mountain  and  plain 

For  "Black  Jack"  was  a  son  of  the  West. 

Our  great  Alexander,  our  mightiest  chief — 

Every  heart-throb  that  beat  in  his  breast 
Was  the  music  that  chimed  in  his  heart  for  relief 

For  our  widows  and  orphans  distressed. 
Sincere  in  his  friendship,  from  trickery  free, 

With  honesty's  stamp  on  his  face, 
And  we  ask  as  we  bow  to  Heaven's  decree, 

"Lord,  raise  up  a  man  in  his  place." 

A  man  whom  the  comrades  can  love  and  revere, 

A  soldier  and  statesman  combined, 
Upright  in  deportment,  unconscious  of  fear, 

Yet  modest  and  gentle  and  kind. 
A  man  who  stood  with  us  on  many  a  field, 

When  the  shots  wildly  shrieked  in  the  air, 
A  man  whose  convictions  never  would  yield — 

A  duplicate  Jack,  as  it  were. 


[138] 


SLEEP,  SOLDIER,  SLEEP! 

A  MEMORIAL  DAY  SONG 

Sleep,  soldier,  sleep!    Thy  warfare  is  o'er, 
War's  dread  alarums  shall  wake  thee  no  more; 
Sleep,  calmly  sleep,  'neath  the  flowery  sod, 
Waiting  the  reveille  sounded  from  God. 
Over  thy  resting-place  bright  flowers  we  twine, 
Gratitude's  emblems  on  loyalty's  shrine. 
Fruits  of  thy  valor  we  gratefully  reap: 
Union  and  Liberty — Sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

CHORUS 

Beautiful  flowers  of  spring 
Loving  hands  hither  bring, 
Sacred  thy  memory  ever  we'll  keep, 
Sweetly  and  peacefully  sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

Rest,  soldier,  rest!    Thy  peace  thou  hast  earned 
On  the  red  fields  where  the  battle  fires  burned; 
Rest,  sweetly  rest,  for  a-weary  wert  thou 
Winning  the  laurels  which  circled  thy  brow. 
Soon  will  the  trumpeter  wake  thee  again, 
Sounding  Assembly  on  Heaven's  bright  plain; 
There  with  thy  comrades  in  realms  of  the  blest, 
Through  all  eternity,  rest,  sweet  rest. 

CHORUS 

Beautiful  flowers  of  spring 

Loving  hands  hither  bring, 

Sacred  thy  memory  ever  we'll  keep, 

Sweetly  and  peacefully  sleep,  sleep,  sleep. 

[139] 


THE  GALLANT  SEVENTY-NINTH 

ANNUAL  REUNION  AND  FORTY-NINTH  ANNIVERSARY,  MAY  13,  IQIQ. 

THE  SOLDIER  SONS  O'  SCOTLAND 

When  the  call  to  the  red  fields  of  warfare  was  ringing, 

When  the  cry  that  our  flag  was  degraded  went  forth, 
When  the  news  of  the  firing  on  Sumter  went  winging 

Through  throbbing  wires  over  the  land  of  the  North, 
The  blood  of  true  patriots  burned  at  the  story, 

Strong  hands  were  all  eager  to  grapple  the  guns, 
And  quickly  to  rise  in  defense  of  Old  Glory 

Were   legions   of    Scotland's   brave,    brawny   young 
sons. 

Their  own  native  Scotia  they  loved  with  devotion, 

They  cherished  the  mem'ry  of  war  chiefs  of  old; 
Their  love  for  their  heroes  was  deep  as  the  ocean; 

From  childhood  they'd  read  of  Scotch  warriors  bold, 
And  when  in  the  land  they'd  adopted  their  valor 

Was  called  to  the  test  when  the  flag  was  assailed, 
They  sought  the  red  fields,  and  no  cowardly  pallor 

O'erspread  their   flushed   faces;  their   hearts  never 
quailed. 

And  nobly  they  fought  on  the  red  fields  of  battle 

Where  death  sang  its  terrible,  madd'ning  refrains ; 
'Mid  roaring  of  cannons  and  musketry's  rattle 

The  war-blood  of  Scotland  coursed  hot  through  their 

veins. 
They  fought  for  the  life  of  the  flag  floating  o'er  them 

In  shot-riddled  wildwood,  in  field  and  in  glen, 
And  gray  serried  ranks  that  stood  battling  before  them 

Reeled  oft  'neath  the  fire  of  the  Cameron  men. 

[140] 


O!  sons  of  the  land  of  the  thistle  and  heather, 

Brave  Cameron  Highlanders,  proud  ye  should  be 
When  thus  you  assemble  as  comrades  together 

To  rehearse  the  brave  deeds  of  your  war  history. 
Though  gray  be  your  heads  with  time's  frosting,  I'll 
warrant 

You  yet  feel  as  young  as  when  warriors  bold, 
For  mind  what  I  tell  you,  'tis  really  abhorrent 

To  think  a  true  Scotchman  could  ever  grow  old. 

Now,  fill  up  your  glasses  and  toast  your  braw  cronies, 

Drink  health  to  your  Spence  and  the  auld  Scotian 

Baird, 
A  cup  for  Joe  Stewart,  and  mind  ye,  no  ponies, 

But  brimming  full  goblets,  for  true  he's  a  laird. 
And  drink  to  yersel's,  every  laddie  amang  ye, 

And  see  that  ye  leave  no  wee  drap  in  the  cup, 
And  down  a  wee  bit  for  the  song  I  have  sang  ye, 

If  ye  think  in  your  hearts  it  is  worthy  a  sup. 

And  drink  ye  in  silence  to  those  who  are  missing 

Since  last  ye  fell  in  for  your  annual  feed, 
And  think,  as  the  cups  to  your  lips  you  are  pressing, 

Of  Martin  and  Ogle  and  brave  Jamie  Reid, 
Of  Elliott,  Anchor,  Lamont,  who  have  left  ye, 

Of  good  Comrade  Clifford,  the  last  one  to  fall ; 
Though  death  of  the  boys  in  the  flesh  has  bereft  ye, 

Their  memory  will  live  till  the  last  bugle  call. 


[Hi] 


A  HAPPY  HIT 

Everybody  shuck  their  heads, 

In  a  doobious  sort  o'  way; 
Talked  about  folks  makin'  beds 

Into  which  they'd  have  to  lay, 
All  because  young  Marcus  Pike 

Sorter  sidled  up  to  me, 
An'  because  I  acted  like 

I  war'  summat  fond  o'  he. 

Sister  Marthy  raved  an'   tore, 

Said  I  would  disgrace  our  name; 
Brother  William  ripped  an'  swore, 

Father  acted  fur  from  tame. 
Mother  didn't  seem  to  keer, 

Fur  she  acted  quiet  like, 
Jes'  as  ef  she  had  no  fear 

That  I'd  marry  Marcus  Pike. 

Marthy  had  a  strappin'  beau, 

Clerkin'  in  Si  Allen's  store, 
Six  foot  tall  an'  seemed  ter  know 

Everything  the  clothes  he  wore 
War  the  best  Si  Allen  kep' 

In  his  place,  an'  Marthy  thought 
That  his  millingtary  step 

Marked  the  hero  to  the  dot. 

Marthy  war'  the  oldest,  an' 
Tol'  me  I  had  much  to  learn, 

An'  I'd  better  hoi'  my  han' 
Till  I  got  a  beau  like  her'n. 
[142] 


But  their  oppersition  jes' 

Seemed  ter  make  me  like  him  more, 
An'  I  done  my  level  best 

His  affection  to  secure. 

When  the  bloody  war  bruk  out 

Mark  jes'  couldn't  stay  ter  hum, 
An'  I  heerd  'm  whoop  an'  shout, 

Follerin'  the  fife  an'  drum. 
When  he  come  ter  say  goodbye 

I  kep'  vowin'  through  my  tears, 
I'd  have  none  but  him  ef  I 

Hed  to  wait  a  million  years. 

Marthy's  feller  said  he  guessed 

War'd  not  agree  with  him — 
That  the  fire  that  moved  the  rest 

War  a  sorter  sudden  whim. 
So  right  in  the  store  he  stuck, 

Spite  o'  what  the  neighbors  said 
That  he  didn't  have  the  pluck 

Fur  to  face  the  rebel  lead. 

Well,  all  through  them  bloody  years 

I  war  true  as  death  to  Mark, 
An'  I  calculate  my  tears 

Would  a-floated  Noah's  ark. 
Marthy's  feller  married  her, 

An'  she  allus  kep'  a  sayin' 
I  war  jes'  a  donkey  fur 

All  my  weepin'  an'  my  prayin'. 

But  at  last  the  fight  was  o'er, 
An'  amid  the  people's  cheers 
[H3] 


An'  a  anvil's  deaf'nin'  roar, 
An'  us  wimmin's  joyful  tears* 

Back  come  Marcus  an'  the  rest, 
An',  not  carin'  who  war'  seeing 

I  jes'  hugged  'im  to  my  breast, 
Prouder  than  a  royal  queen. 

How  the  years  have  seemed  to  fly 

Since  I  wed  my  soger  boy; 
He  seems  proud  o'  me,  an'  I 

Seem  to  swim  in  ceaseless  joy. 
An'  I  reckon  Marthy  sees 

That  I  made  a  happy  hit — 
Mark  is  Jestis  o'  the  Peace — 

Her  ol'  man  is  clerkin'  yit. 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

JUST    US    FEW 

Just  us  few,  boys  in  blue, 

Gathered  together  today, 
Where  comrades  sleep  and  women  weep, 

Scattering  flowers  of  May. 

Just  us  few,  boys  in  blue, 

Old  boys  in  blue  and  gray, 
Thinking  of  days,  Sumter  ablaze, 

We  marched  to  the  war  away. 

Just  us  few,  me  and  you, 

Tommy  and  Billy  and  Jay, 
Here  with  the  dead,  who  fought  and  bled, 

Awaiting  the  judgment  day. 
[144] 


Just  us  few,  hark,  tattoo — 

Attention,  comrades!  I  say, 
Soon  'twill  be  taps,  brush  up  your  traps, 

Rest  for  the  Blue  and  Gray. 


OUR  MARTYRED  DEAD 

(The  following  poem  was  read  by  the  author  at  the  tomb  of 
General  E.  D.  Baker,  on  Decoration  Day,  1879.) 

Soldiers,  comrades,  gather  round  me, 

List  the  story  I  will  tell 
Of  a  noble,  gallant  soldier — 

One  who  loved  our  flag  so  well. 
Here  he  sleeps  beneath  the  daisies, 

Here,  anear  the  ocean  broad, 
Near  the  great  Pacific's  murmur, 

He  is  resting  'neath  the  sod. 

Oh,  the  brave;  methinks  I  see  him 

Charging,  leading,  sword  in  hand, 
With  the  courage  of  a  Custer, 

At  the  head  of  his  command. 
Onward!  upward!   rally  comrades! 

See  the  rebels  giving  way ! 
Ah!  Ball's  Bluff,  you  had  a  martyr 

When  our  Baker  fell  that  day. 

While  we  gather  'round  his  ashes, 

Comrades  far  beyond  the  plain 
Send  a  tribute  to  his  mem'ry 

From  the  Post  that  bears  his  name. 
Baker  Post,  in  Philadelphia — 

Boys  who  joined  him  in  the  fray — 
Bade  me  tell  you  how  they  loved  him, 

And  I  speak  for  them  today. 
[145] 


DECORATION  DAY 

Comrades,  our  Nation  is  thinking  today 

Of  her  glorious  salvation,  and  counting  the  cost 

Of  the  men  who  are  sleeping  beneath  the  cold  clay — 

The  noble,  the  gallant,  and  brave,  that  we  lost, 

That    we    lost!     Yet    how    fondly    we    cherish    their 

names, 

How  eager  to  tell  of  the  deeds  they  have  done, 
Their  actions  so  brave,  that  their  glory  and  fame 
Are  pictured  and  told  in  the  battles  they  won! 

Let  our  Nation  rejoice,  then,  'mid  sorrow  today — 
Let  our  soldier  hearts  beat  with  the  love  of  the  free; 
While  the  widows  and  orphans  are  kneeling  to  pray, 
Great  God  of  the.  Universe,  humbly  to  Thee, 
And  we  who  have  safely  returned  from  the  fight, 
Would  ask  Thee,  most  humbly,  dear  Father,  again, 
To  watch  o'er  our  actions,  that  we,  by  Thy  might, 
May  show  that  our  comrades  have  not  died  in  vain. 

Dear  comrades,  the  widow  has  come;  stand  aside — 
Let  her  kneel  by  the  tomb,  unresponsive  forever, 
Where  moulders  the  arm  of  the  true  and  the  tried; 
Her  guard  and  protector,  till  war  bade  them  sever. 
Stand  aside,  boys,  she  comes,  as  she'll  come  all  the 

years, 
With   a   wreath,   lovely   wreath,   all  bespangled   with 

tears, 

And  a  prayer,  Heavenly  Father,  when  this  life  is  done, 
Reunite  us  in  Heaven  with  loved  Washington. 

The  orphan  has  come,  boys ;  let  him  have  a  place 
To  look  at  the  orator  straight  in  the  face, 

[146] 


To  listen  once  more,  hear  recounted  the  story, 
For  his  sire  was  a  soldier,  and  shared  in  the  glory; 
And  he,  too,  will  vow  on  each  thirtieth  of  May, 
His  love  for  our  Union ;  God  bless  him !  we  say. 

The  patriot  is  here  and  the  statesman  has  come, 

The  actor,  the  student,  yea,  every  one; 

The  dwellers  in  palace,  and  hovel  so  plain, 

All,  all  have  done  honor  to  those  who  were  slain. 

Let  the  blossoms  of  May  bow  their  heads  o'er  each 

grave, 

And  breathe  balm  of  sweetness  all  over  the  brave, 
And  lilies,  pure  lilies,  with  roses  so  red, 
Be  strewn  in  bright  wreaths  on  the  graves  of  the  dead, 
While  tears  of  the  widows  and  orphans  like  dew 
Are  mingled  with  flow'rets  of  red,  white  and  blue. 

And  now  as  these  heroes  lie  sleeping  beneath 
The  Stars  and  the  Stripes,  the  flowers  and  the  wreath, 
We  think  of  the  trenches  dug  after  the  fight, 
When  wrapped  in  their  blankets  at  dead  of  the  night, 
We  buried  in  hundreds,  yea,  thousands,  the  braves 
Who  fell  in  the  battle ;  no  mark  o'er  the  graves 
Save  that  simple  inscription,  just  one  word  alone, 
You  read  it  with  awe,  and  pronounce  it  "Unknown." 
And  today  the  four  hundred  thousand  who  fell, 
The  wife,  and  the  mother,  and  sister,  will  tell, 
Oh,  how  generous,  how  loyal,  how  noble  and  true, 
They  died  for  our  Union,  for  me  and  for  you! 

Our  Union  still  lives.    They  have  not  died  in  vain, 
And  today  we've  adorned  their  low  graves  once  again ; 
But  these  flowers,  and  the  hands  that  have  strewn  them 
today, 

[147] 


In  death  will  soon  languish  and  all  pass  away, 
And  these  monuments,  too,  so  majestic  and  grand, 
Will  crumble  to  dust.    Yet  our  Union  will  stand — 
And  that  is  their  monument,  ours,  too,  as  well, 
Who  fought  by  the  side  of  the  noble  who  fell ; 
Who  suffered  in  cabin,  in  camp,  and  in  field, 
And  swore  by  yon  flag  that  we  never  would  yield 
Till  that  flag,  lovely  flag,  dearest  flag  of  the  free, 
Should  float,  boys,  in  triumph,  for  you  and  for  me. 

And  here  as  we  gather  today  'neath  the  Stars, 
We  look  upon  comrades  with  crutches  and  scars, 
And  sleeves,  empty,  sleeves,  hanging  loose  by  their  side, 
The  boys  who  survived  'mid  the  thousands  who  died. 
And  yet  do  they  murmur?     No,  no!  nor  complain. 
"Each  man  owed  a  part,  when  the  war-god  held  reign, 
And  we  have  but  acted  our  part  in  the  strife, 
And  gave  but  a  limb,  while  the  dead  gave  a  life." 
Oh,  comrades,  how  hallowed  the  ground  where  they 

sleep — 

Where  the  widows  and  orphans  are  kneeling  to  weep 
O'er  the  brave  who  have  fallen  in  skirmish  and  fight, 
Protecting  that  flag  and  the  cause  that  was  right! 

And  yet  we  have  still  a  great  duty  to  do — 

Work  on,  loyal  hearts,  until  death's  last  tattoo 

Shall  lull  us  to  rest  'neath  the  flag  of  the  free, 

Till  awakened  by  angels  with  sweet  reveille, 

And  the  boys  who  have  gone,  and  whose  marching 

is  o'er, 
Are  all  waiting  for  us  up  on  Canaan's  bright  shore. 


[148] 


THE  GRAY   AND   THE   BLUE   IN   DOMESTIC 

LIFE 

(This  poem  first  appeared  in  The  Daily  Herald,  El   Paso, 
Texas,  December  17,   1895.) 

A  Yankee  youth — a  boy  in  blue — 
Served  as  a  soldier  brave  and  true, 
And  when  the  bloody  strife  had  closed 
To  hasten  home  felt  indisposed. 
Some  hinted  that  he  did  not  dare 
To  face  some  ugly  rumors  there — 
To  put  the  matter  very  mild, 
The  oats  he'd  sown  were  very  wild. 
So  when  the  fearful  war  was  done, 
He  cast  away  his  Springfield  gun, 
And  settling  in  a  Southern  State, 
Began  to  hustle  for  a  mate. 
He  found  a  widow — one  whose  lord 
Had  fallen  by  a  Yankee  sword, 
Or  by  a  Yankee  bullet  sent 
From  Union  lines  on  mischief  bent. 
His  tones  were  soft  as  tuneful  lute 
When  he  began  to  press  his  suit, 
And  she,  grown  tired  of  loneliness, 
Soon   whispered   a   decisive   "Yes." 
They  married  were,  and  for  awhile 
Each  face  just  glittered  with  a  smile — 
No  bickerings,  no  hot  turmoil, 
But  all  was  smooth  as  flowing  oil. 
One  day,  while  in  a  cranky  mood, 
He  let  fall  an  assertion  rude 
About  his  late  opponents,  and 
She  all  too  quickly  "called  his  hand." 
[149] 


Her  Southern  blood  boiled  up,  until 
She  seemed  just  mad  enough  to  kill, 
And  with  a  haughty  toss  of  head, 
She  shook  a  wifely  fist  and  said: 
The  valiant  men  who  wore  the  gray 
Were  good  as  he  was,  any  day; 
And  if  she  in  the  future  heard 
Another  spiteful,  slurring  word 
About  the  Southern  soldiers  true, 
She'd  cook  his  bacon  p.  d.  q. 
Well,  very  often  after  that 
They  had  a  somewhat  lively  spat, 
And  it  was  very  easy  guessed 
He  always  came  out  second  best. 
Their  frequent  quarrels  soon  became 
A  matter  of  reproach  and  shame, 
For  neighbors  heard  of  every  muss 
And  talked  about  them  scandalous. 
He  swore  he'd  never  yield,  and  she 
Was  just  as  firmly  set  as  he. 
He  called  her  an  old  rebel  crank, 
She  titled  him  a  sneaking  Yank, 
And  while  she  claimed  the  men  in  gray 
Were  far  the  bravest,  he  would  say 
They  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to 
The  valiant  men  who  wore  the  blue. 
When  they  had  been  a  short  year  wed, 
He  kissed  her  cheek  one  day  and  said, 
"My  dear,  we  never  can  agree 
On  such  a  question,  for,  you  see, 
You  are  of  loyal  Southern  brand 
While  I'm  a  son  of  Yankeeland. 
[150] 


By  argument,  my  darling  wife, 
We'll  live  in  never-ending  strife. 
Of  war,  let's  call  for  a  cessation, 
And  settle  it  by  arbitration. 
Let  Nature  be  the  judge,  and  we 
Abide  by  Nature's  wise  decree. 
You've  told  me  I  must  soon  prepare 
To  greet  a  little  baby  heir, 
And  I  am  longing  for  the  day 
When  in  your  arms  I'll  see  it  lay. 
Now,  darling,  let  us  end  our  strife 
And  try  to  live  a  peaceful  life, 
By  each  agreeing  to  a  scheme 
To  end  this  dark  domestic  dream. 
We  will  not  mention  war  again 
Till  darling  baby  comes,  and  then, 
If  it's  dear  little  eyes  are  gray 
I'll  be  a  rebel  from  that  day; 
But  should  they  happen  to  be  blue 
Then  you  must  be  a  Yankee  true." 
She  quick  agreed.     He  kissed  her  cheek 
And  promised  he  would  never  speak 
Another  harsh  or  unkind  word 
Till  Umpire  Nature  should  be  heard. 
Their  lives  ran  smooth  as  polished  glass 
Till  the  expected  came  to  pass, 
And  prouder  man  ne'er  wore  a  head 
Than  he,  when,  with  imperious  tread, 
The  doctor  led  him  in  to  see 
The  increase  in  his  family. 
His  face  was  wreathed  with  smiles  until 
The  sunshine  from  it  seemed  to  spill 
[151] 


In  liquid  brightness  to  the  floor, 

As  entered  he  her  chamber  door. 

He  hastened  quickly  to  her  side, 

And  in  most  cheery  accents  cried, 

"The  judge  has  spoken.    Which  one  wins?" 

She  pointed  to  a  pair  of  twins, 

And  then  he  saw  to  his  dismay 

One's  eyes  were  blue,  the  other's  gray. 

He  gazed  with  ever  widening  eyes, 

His  bosom  rent  with  blank  surprise, 

Until  his  wife  in  tender  voice, 

Said:  "Hubby,  darling,  let's  rejoice 

At  this  great  blessing  God  has  sent — 

Our  peace  will  never  more  be  rent 

With  such  rebellious  talk  from  me, 

For  I  can  very  plainly  see 

These  pretty  little  cherubs  here 

Are  "but  the  fruits  of  Union,  dear. 

When  we  began  our  bitter  fight 

Which  turned  our  day  to  starless  night, 

Had  I  seceded,  'pon  my  word, 

This  thing  would  never  have  occurred — 

From  this  day  forward,  ever  more, 

You'll  find  me  Union,  to  the  core." 


[152] 


.B 


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